Ace of Spades
by CricketCat
Summary: When Inspector Lestrade comes to a bored Holmes with an offer to catch a serial killer, he jumps at the chance. But there's a catch: Holmes and Watson must agree to team up with a group of Pinkerton detectives to catch an elusive man wanted on both sides of the Atlantic. Will they catch the killer before it's too late? Or become his next targets? *Please read the Author's Note*
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, this is my first serious attempt at a fan fiction of any kind. I'm still very new to this, so if anybody feels I'm getting off track, by all means feel free to poke me with a cattle prod and get me back in line. I, and the characters, will thank you for it. Reviews and constructive criticism are almost as welcome as dark chocolate. Flames, however, will just be used to make myself highly caffeinated tea, which inevitably results in more poorly-written material for you to read.**

**The first two chapters are mostly for expositional purposes, so expect things to be a little slow at the start. In fact, I'll be honest, I don't care for the pace of the first chapter at all, but the action picks up soon thereafter. I promise. I also promise that this will not be a romance of any kind whatsoever. Just so we're clear on that point. I should also make it clear that I haven't read any of the stories for quite a while and I've only seen the movie three times so please, to quote Holmes, be gentle with me.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing but a copy of the soundtrack. And, apparently, Anne Satterfield, her cat, and the soon-to-be-mentioned Pinkertons.**

* * *

Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes had not had a case since early March. It was now late June, and Dr. John Watson had good reason to be concerned for his friend. It was only a matter of time before the boredom drove Holmes to do something drastic. The last time he'd gone this long without a case, Watson had come home one evening to find the curtains on fire and Mrs. Hudson in near hysterics. Holmes still swore it was an accident, but the doctor couldn't help but think otherwise.

An unearthly screech interrupted his musings, causing Watson to glance over the edge of his newspaper at Holmes. The detective was lounging on his tiger skin with his violin in one hand, a bow in the other, a pile of papers in front of him, and a disgusted look on his face.

"This is maddening," he muttered, tossing the bow aside. "Absolutely maddening."

"I must agree the tedium is quite dreary."

"That is not what I find maddening, Watson. It's these American correspondents of mine," he fumed. He gestured to the stack of papers that lay before him. "Look at this. Twenty-two different contacts and not one of them can find a single reference to an Anne Satterfield in the Territory of Wyoming. One of them sent me something on an Opal Satterfield in Rapp's Barren, Arkansas, for Heaven's sake! Watson, do you realize the vast difference, not to mention distance, between Wyoming and Arkansas? Good grief, the town isn't even on a map! It's absolutely useless. To say nothing of infuriating."

"You are so desperate for something to occupy your time that you're doing background checks on Mrs. Hudson's other tenants?"

"I think it's a healthy practice. You must admit, the girl's behavior is quite puzzling."

Watson couldn't argue with that. Since the day she'd moved in almost three weeks ago, Anne Satterfield had been an enigma. At the end of May, the girl had shown up out of the blue looking for a room to rent. She said she'd been told she could get a room for a reasonable rate there at Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson had been more than happy to show her the spare room on the third floor. After a brief discussion, the girl paid the landlady in advance and moved in that evening with nothing more than the clothes on her back, a battered old carpet bag, an even more battered-looking leather satchel, a small guitar, and a large black tomcat.

The doctor knew it was her behavior that intrigued Holmes the most. She never joined the rest of the household at meals, her room was always locked, and she left the house every morning at nine, taking either the guitar or a sketchbook along and not returning until just before sunset. On more than one occasion, Holmes had caught her peering through the curtains when she came back, as if checking to make sure she hadn't been followed. When he'd asked if that was what she was doing, she'd quickly and vehemently denied the accusation before hurrying upstairs and locking herself in her room for the evening.

Downstairs, the clock began to chime nine. Watson heard a door on the third floor creak open, and then the soft patter of footfalls on the steps.

"There she goes," he said. "Just like clockwork."

"I've half a mind to confront her," Holmes muttered.

"You've already tried that, remember?"

Indeed he did. On the girl's third day, her cat had "escaped" and invaded Holmes' room downstairs. Watson suspected that his friend had let the animal loose on purpose while the girl was out simply so he'd have a reason to question her. When she'd come to collect the feline, Holmes began interviewing her like he would any other suspect. Watson had privately decided that someone in her family was a lawyer, because the girl had countered Holmes' cross-examination with questions of her own. She was obviously no stranger to being interrogated. The only information gleaned out of the whole fiasco was that her name was Anne Satterfield, she was from the Territory of Wyoming, her mother had been half-Cherokee, and the cat's name was Edgar. The cat himself had ended the conversation by leaping from the mantle, clawing Holmes on the back of the leg, and running upstairs with his mistress right behind him. The detective had been forced to admit defeat for the evening and allow to Watson tend to the bloody wound.

The next morning, Holmes had sent communications to his contacts in the States, asking them to find any information they could on Anne Satterfield. Two weeks later, the correspondences came pouring in, and none of them had anything that could shed some light on the matter. The whole affair was enough to drive a mind like Holmes' to distraction.

"Mr. Holmes!"

Holmes and Watson both looked up as Constable Clarke entered the room.

"Ah, Clarkie! What news from the Yard? Has Lestrade arrested the wrong man again?"

The side of the constable's mouth twitched, evidently trying to suppress the humorous memory.

"No, sir. He requests that you come with me and meet with him immediately."

"On what matter?"

"Burglary and murder, sir."

That was all Holmes needed to hear. He set the violin aside and leaped up, grabbing his coat and hat. Watson tossed his paper on the table. The Anne Satterfield Problem would have to wait. The game was afoot.

* * *

The murder was fairly straight-forward, as far as anyone could tell. Straight-forward, Holmes conceded, with one exception. The victim, a male in his early forties, had a spade painted on his forehead with black ink. The symbol was not unlike those found on playing cards. He bent down to examine the body more closely.

"What're the facts, Lestrade?"

"His wife found him like this just two hours ago. She claims she heard nothing, and that the staff didn't either."

"Cause of death?"

"The throat was slit, apparently."

"And what was stolen?"

"A small emerald ring and several pieces of silverware, according to the wife."

"Get a description of the missing items," Holmes ordered as he daubed his index finger in the ink on the man's forehead. He rubbed the ink between his finger and thumb for a moment before dabbing it to his tongue, tasting it. He stood up, wiping his hands on his trousers. "Was there anything else of interest?"

"According to his wife, he received something by post two days ago."

"Did she know what it was?"

"A playing card, sir. An ace of spades playing card."

"Where is the card now?"

"The wife said he thought it was a joke. Said he threw it in the fireplace right after he got it."

"Some joke," Holmes murmured, glancing down at the spade painted on the man's brow. "Any enemies? Rivals? Spurned lovers out for revenge?"

"None that we've found."

"Hmm. Thank you, Lestrade, that'll be all."

Holmes turned and left the room, leaving the police to do their "work." Watson stepped out of a parlor on the first floor and met him at the foot of the stairs.

"I don't think we'll be getting anything more out of the wife at the moment," he said, motioning to a sobbing woman in the other room. "She's practically in hysterics."

"What did you learn?"

"Just about anything you could ever possibly want to know about her family, but absolutely no reason as to why someone would want her husband dead."

"I should interview her myself."

"I wouldn't recommend it," the doctor warned. "Not at the moment, anyway. I know how well you deal with overly-emotional women."

"I don't know what you mean by that, Watson. Do I not treat women with the utmost respect and courtesy?"

"Only when the opposite party isn't in hysterics. Then you leave me to deal with them."

"And you always handle such situations so splendidly. I don't know how you do it."

The two men stood in the foyer for a moment with Holmes watching the parlor uncertainly. The woman was still sobbing uncontrollably. A maid was trying, without much success, to soothe her with a cup of tea.

"I believe I'll give her a day or two," Holmes remarked. "I _will_ have to interview her eventually," he continued, stepping outside. "There is always a chance she neglected to mention some bit of information. Distraught wives have a tendency to do that when they find their husbands dead in the library."

"Do you think she might 'neglect to mention' something on purpose?"

"It's certainly a possibility," Holmes admitted, "and such things have happened before, but we have very little data to form such a theory on. She and the rest of the household should not be above suspicion. What intrigues me is how the murderer got inside. There was no sign of forced entry, no footprints in the back garden, and no one claims to have heard anything unusual. Whoever this person is, he's obviously been in the house before."

"What gives you that idea?" Watson inquired, sidestepping a group of children running towards the commotion at the end of the block.

"He knew exactly what to look for and where to look for it without disturbing the household. A random burglar off the street would not have known where to find a single emerald ring and a drawer of silverware without running the risk of waking someone. This man is a professional, Watson. I think this case will prove to be most challenging."

* * *

The words still hung in Watson's ears that evening as he sat in the dining room with a cup of tea and a book. Ordinarily, he would have had the tea in his room, but Holmes had "borrowed" the kettle the moment they'd returned that afternoon. Knowing full well what his friend was liable to do with it, Watson had decided against stealing it back from him, and had opted to use Mrs. Hudson's instead. In hindsight, it was probably a wise choice.

Holmes was upstairs plucking away on that blasted violin of his and Mrs. Hudson had already retired for the night, so Watson was surprised to hear a voice coming from the drawing room.

"Come here, Edgar, come on. Here, kitty."

Of course. He'd forgotten momentarily about the new tenant. Curious as to what she could possibly be doing at such an hour, Watson left the dining room to investigate.

He found Anne Satterfield standing at the far end of the room with her back to the door. She was straining to reach Edgar the cat, who had crawled up on top of a curio cabinet and was now sitting gleefully out of his owner's reach.

"Come here, Edgar, please?" She begged. "If you scare Mrs. Hudson like you did this morning, she'll skin you and evict me."

"So that's what the screaming was all about."

Anne let out a squeal and spun around.

"Yes. Yes, it was," she stuttered, trying to regain her composure. "He, uh, he crawled into a cupboard this morning and Mrs. Hudson didn't know. I'm trying to keep the incident from repeating."

She turned back to the cabinet and tried to grab Edgar again. Watson could have sworn the cat was smirking as her fingers missed by several inches.

"Here," he said, crossing the room. "Let me." He ran his hand under the cat and lifted him from the cabinet. Edgar growled, but offered no further protest as he was passed back to Anne.

"Thank you, sir."

"It's no trouble." He studied her a bit. "Forgive me for sounding forward, but why did you leave America?"

Anne shrugged, stroking her cat.

"A change of scenery, I guess. I got tired of being in the same place, being around the same people."

"You couldn't have simply moved to another part of your own country?"

"Americans are Americans, no matter where you put them. I wanted to see how the rest of the world lives."

"And have you found the rest of the world to your liking?"

"More or less," she answered, still stroking the cat. She glanced up at the ceiling as the plaintive sounds of an out-of-tune violin filled the house. She sighed. "He's gonna do that all night, isn't he?"

Watson nodded an affirmative.

"Most likely. He considers it intellectually stimulating. It enables him to think. I suppose I should just apologize for him now, because I know he'll never do it."

"No, that's all right. I've heard worse. Far worse." She looked for a moment like she was going to elaborate, but instead she walked away and said, "Goodnight, sir," as she left the room.

Watson remained in the drawing room for a few minutes. He stood at the window, watching the flickering glow of the gas lamps through the wispy fog that had set in, and allowed his mind to wander. He'd always found that to be more effective than listening to his friend's drug-induced ramblings of musical theories.

_Not that there will be many of those for a while,_ Watson reminded himself. Holmes finally had a new case; one that was far more interesting than a new tenant and was sure to keep him occupied for some time. It was, he had to admit, one of the more mystifying cases he'd been dragged along in to. The brutality of the murder seemed to suggest revenge, yet the wife had insisted her husband had no enemies. Then there was the nature of how the murderer got inside. That was another puzzle entirely.

The doctor found that it was a bit too much for his tired brain to fathom. He returned to his room to get some rest and fell asleep to the sound of a mournful violin solo coming from one level of the house, and the soft strumming of a guitar playing "Amazing Grace" from another.


	2. Chapter 2

**The only reason I have Chapter Two up now is because I finished it last night. The third chapter might take a while since I'm researching stuff like "fixed lividity" and I don't have a very strong stomach. Also, I don't believe it's mentioned in this chapter or the previous one, but the story takes place in 1887. Is the date relevant? No, not really. However, I thought I should mention it anyway.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, or anybody else. Heck, I don't even have a copy of the DVD yet.**

* * *

Chapter 2

The story of the murder was on the front page of the paper the next morning, much to Holmes' disgust. He had hoped that Lestrade would show a bit of creative thinking and not allow the story to be immediately published. Now the murderer would be on his guard. Admittedly, this was only a minor setback, but aggravating all the same. He could have progressed further at a quicker pace if the murderer had been allowed to think no one was looking for him.

Holmes stood at the window, watching the life on Baker Street below. The people bustled on the sidewalks, going about their daily routines. Fools. They were completely unobservant. In just the last four minutes, at least six of them had been the victim of the local pick-pocket who often frequented the Baker Street area. Was there any hope for human society?

Tired of observing the populace, Holmes turned slightly to focus his observations on Gladstone instead. The bulldog sat by the door and was giving himself a good scratch. He showed no signs that the new anesthetic Holmes had tested on him that morning was working. In fact, the dog almost seemed energetic, instead of lethargic.

Behind him, Holmes could hear the scratching of a pen against paper. Watson was adding something to one of his notebooks again.

"Chronicling the events of yesterday's investigation, eh, Boswell?"

"You know I detest that nickname," Watson said without looking up.

"All the same, you're still recording yesterday's events, aren't you?"

"Why do you feel the need to mock my habit of recording my life?"

"Why do you feel the need to record your life in the first place?"

"So that I can look back on it in twenty years and wonder why I did half the things I did."

"Ah, yes." Holmes nodded understandingly. "Hindsight truly is the clearest sight of all."

Watson sighed and set his pen down. He could already see where this conversation was going. It was time to change topics.

"I had an interesting little chat with our new housemate last night."

Holmes finally turned completely around to face Watson. "Do tell," was plainly stamped on his features.

"She says she's moved here for the change of scenery," Watson continued. "That Americans are too dull."

Holmes' expression changed from intense interest to intense disbelief.

"So there you have it. No ulterior motive whatsoever."

"I'm not convinced."

"No, of course you're not," Watson muttered.

"A girl that young does not go to another country by herself," Holmes stated, making his way back to the window. "Not a respectable one, at any rate. This girl intrigues me, Watson. She's an enigma, a puzzle. A cipher waiting to be cracked."

"Isn't one uncracked cipher enough?" The doctor inquired, motioning to the morning paper.

"One cipher is never enough. The more challenging the problem, the more intellectual stimulation one receives from it. It's positively—"

"Mr. Holmes?"

The detective turned to see who had infiltrated his domain and disrupted his train of thought. Mrs. Hudson stood at the door.

"Yes, what is it, Nanny?"

"There are two men downstairs who wish to see you."

"Are they clients?"

"They say they are from America and that they need to see you on an urgent matter."

It took Holmes a vast amount of effort to not role his eyes. As if one American wasn't enough to deal with.

"Very well," he grumbled. "Send them up."

Mrs. Hudson left, showed the two men into the room, and retreated back downstairs. Holmes quickly assessed the pair while he shook hands with them.

The first man was an older gentleman, early- to mid- fifties, with thick graying hair and an even thicker handlebar mustache à la Colonel Custer. His hands were calloused and rough; he was clearly a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. The pristine condition of his suit supported this theory, suggesting that it was rarely worn. In build, he was roughly five-foot-seven and rather thickset, although he carried himself like a man who had seen plenty of action before.

The second man was more of a boy, really. He couldn't have been a day over twenty-one. His reddish-brown hair and lively green eyes gave him a very boyish quality. His hands weren't quite as calloused and his suit wasn't quite as clean. He was about two inches taller, and a good deal thinner than his companion.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm J.W. Morris," the older man said, fishing a metal badge out of his pocket and holding it up for a moment. "This is my associate, Charles Henley. We're with the Pinkerton National Detective Agency, currently working as operatives for the United States government. We understand you and your friend here were called to investigate a murder yesterday."

"And of what concern is that to the American government?" Holmes asked with a slight smirk, sitting down.

"Similar murders have happened in various parts in the States," Henley explained. "A person receives an ace of spades playing card from some unknown source. Two days later, the person is found dead with a spade painted on the forehead and some valuable item missing."

"Four of us had been called in to investigate about a year ago," Morris continued. "To cut through the fat, we figured the brains behind the operation to be a fella by name of Henry Davis in Chicago, Illinois. We gathered up our evidence, got us a search warrant, and went to raid his place one night. 'Fore it was all said and done, we had one man dead and Davis was gone."

"For several months," Henley said, "we had no idea where he'd disappeared to. Then, about three weeks ago, we got a tip-off from an informant who said Davis was living in London under an assumed name. Morris and I came as soon as we got the chance. We've been trying to find him since we arrived, with poor results until now. We think the murder you're investigating was committed by the same man."

Holmes was perfectly still, slumped back in his chair, as he listened to the Pinkertons relate their tale. Watson could practically see the gears turning in his friend's head as he processed the information given to him. He sat up and pressed his hands together in a pondering manner.

"An interesting hypothesis, Mr. Henley, but one thing doesn't quite fit: If your man knows you are on to him, why would he risk capture by resuming his murders with the same trademark he used in the States?"

"Because the temptation's too much for him," Morris answered. "He likes the attention and the idea that he's making a name for himself. Plus he's crazy as a run-over dog. He's smart and wily, but not very sound. He comes from a real suck-egg family. Should've been committed, every single one of 'em."

"We're willing to offer whatever assistance we can," said Henley. "Henry Davis is wanted for the murders of eight people in America. We want him caught as much as you do."

"Understandable. Thank you, gentlemen."

The two Pinkertons made their way to the door.

"I do have one parting question," Holmes called after them. Morris continued down the stairs, while Henley turned around.

"Yes?"

"What happened to your fourth man?"

"Sir?"

"You stated that four of you were detailed to capture Davis. Two of that party are here now, and the third was killed. What happened to the fourth?"

Henley's bright eyes suddenly darkened.

"Travis Henley ran off not too long after the raid," he murmured. "No one's seen him since March."

"Your brother, I presume?"

"Close enough. Good day, Mr. Holmes."

With that, the Pinkerton turned on his heel and left. Holmes slumped back in his chair, staring at the empty doorway contemplatively.

"An interesting turn of events. I hadn't expected to be provided with a name that quickly. Takes some of the fun out of it, I must say. No matter, though. Watson, what do you make of them?"

"That Henley fellow is hiding something."

Holmes gave his companion a pitying look.

"That, my friend, is painfully obvious."

"Do you think there's something to it?"

"I think there could be. Would you be so kind as to see if I have a biography on Henry Davis in my index?"

Watson reached over and began rummaging through the filing cabinet. Sure enough, he found the man's biography sandwiched between that of the former President of the Confederacy and a Russian priest. He tossed the small file over to Holmes, who thumbed through it with a curious expression on his face.

"I thought the name sounded familiar," he muttered. "Hmm… Mr. Morris certainly wasn't joking when he said Henry Davis came from a 'suck-egg family.' His mother, for example, was suspected of poisoning both Union and Confederate soldiers when they used her house as lodgings, although nothing was proved. His sister was committed to an asylum in 1876 after she attacked a sheriff with a steak knife. One of his brothers was arrested on murder charges and hanged himself in his prison cell while awaiting trial. Another brother set fire to a church. The list goes on." He closed the file and laid it on the table. "What we're dealing with here is, quite possibly, the most deranged mind in London. That I know of, at least. The question is now, how do we catch him?"

Across the room, Gladstone suddenly let out a whine. He lumbered away from the door as fast has his legs would allow as Edgar stalked into the room. The large black cat sat down in the doorway and stared at Holmes with unblinking, baleful yellow eyes. Holmes stared back, his face a picture of disdain.

"I wonder how much it would cost to have that thing's head mounted on a plaque," he mused out loud.

"I wouldn't try it," Watson cautioned. "If you did, you'd be sleeping with one eye open for the rest of your life. The girl's quite fond of to him."

"It fascinates me that a person could develop such an attachment to such an unsavory animal."

"She's alone," the doctor replied. "People do strange things when they're lonely." His eyes strayed over to the blackened streaks around the windows. "Or bored…"

Without a word, Holmes suddenly leaped out of his chair. He crossed the room in a few strides, grabbed his lock-picking kit, and darted out the door. Watson set his journal on the table and followed. He found his friend upstairs in front of a closed door at the end of the landing, on his knees, trying to pick the lock.

"Holmes, what are you doing?"

"It's time to shed some light on the curious case of Miss Satterfield," Holmes replied. "She's followed her usual routine of leaving at nine o'clock this morning. I can thereby assume that she will not return until sometime this evening. Right now would be the ideal time to learn some more about her personality."

"You're going to break in to her room," Watson said bluntly. "Why?"

"One can tell a great many things about an individual by examining a personal space. The tiniest details say so much about one's character." He jiggled the knob and put his lock-picking kit away as the door swung open.

For someone whose personal appearance was so neat, Holmes was surprised to find that Anne's room was, quite frankly, a complete mess. A small desk and chair had been situated in front of the window. The curtains had been removed, and sat in a heap next to a wastebasket. The desk itself was littered with papers and drawing utensils. An unfinished sketching of Gladstone was pinned to the windowsill with a thumbtack, and a coat was draped across the back of the chair. There were more papers stacked in somewhat neat piles on the floor.

The small twin bed shoved in the corner next to the desk was the only thing clear of clutter, with its quilt tucked neatly around the mattress. A guitar case and a carpet bag had been shoved underneath. Hanging on the bedpost was a hat. Holmes crossed the room and picked it up to examine it. It was made of brown felt with a rattlesnake hatband and "Stetson" stamped on the inside. He hung it back on the bedpost and walked over to the desk.

Closer inspection revealed that the papers on the desk were not only sketches and drawings, but also notes and reminders, the most recent of which read "Maybe write to Joe." Buried underneath the mound of papers were a black leather-bound Bible, a book of works by Edgar Allen Poe, and a box of toothpicks.

Holmes slid the top drawer open, which contained at least a dozen different types of pencils, erasers, four well-made fountain pens, and two bottles of ink. In the middle drawer was a money purse, a toy mouse for the cat, a deck of playing cards, some candles and matches, and a Bowie knife in a leather sheath. The bottom drawer held a Confederate-issue LeMat revolver and a box of cartridges.

The small wardrobe at the foot of the bed was locked, but Holmes quickly found the key concealed on top. All of her dresses were dull, dark colors and not at all like the latest fashions in women's clothing. They were plain and serviceable; a working girl's clothes. He doubted she ever bothered herself with what was in style. One of the skirts, he noticed, had a rip in the seam that had been sewn up with horse hair. In the bottom of the wardrobe were two pairs of men's trousers and shirts folded neatly and laid in a corner. A pair of leather Western-style riding boots sat next to them. Holmes locked the wardrobe and returned the key to its hiding place.

"She's a runaway," the detective said as he turned around.

"And how did you come to that conclusion?" Watson inquired.

"Simple. Look at the room. It's completely devoid of photographs and other family mementos. That suggests that she wants nothing to do with them anymore. She's received no letters, nor has she sent any, which implies that her relatives have no clue where she is and she wants to keep it that way. However, perhaps she's having second thoughts. She's made a note to herself to 'maybe write to Joe.' She might be considering writing this man and disclosing her location to him."

"A secret lover, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," Holmes conceded, "but I doubt it. If that were the case, she would have written to him already. She'd want him to know where she is, and she certainly wouldn't have to consider sending him a message. More likely, Joe is a relative or close family friend whom she trusts, but not entirely enough to confide in him yet."

"What would stop her from writing to him?"

"She's afraid he'll tell her family where she is, and that is the last thing she wants. It's fairly obvious she does not wish to be found. Have you ever noticed how she acts when she leaves or returns to the house? In the mornings, she's very quiet on the stairs, and it's not because she's trying not to wake anybody. Everyone's up and about by nine o'clock. She's trying not to draw attention to the fact that she's leaving. The same is true of when she returns in the evenings, however, she also looks through the window to reassure herself she has not been followed."

Watson let his eyes roam around the room, trying to understand the girl's inner workings the way his friend did, but found that he couldn't. What would make a seventeen-year-old girl pack up her belongings and move to another country? A family feud was the only thing he could think of that would make a person sever all ties with kin.

As fascinating as the girl's behavior was, Watson found himself more interested in the condition of her room. The nature of the clutter, a sense of organized chaos, eerily reminded him of Holmes' chambers downstairs, albeit slightly cleaner. If a personal space was any indication towards character, he had reason to be concerned. All he and Mrs. Hudson needed was another housemate who was an aspiring arsonist.

"Mr. Holmes!"

Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up from downstairs. Holmes left the room, motioning for Watson to follow him.

"We can't have our dear landlady finding us in another tenant's room, now can we?" He leaned over the banister and yelled down, "What now, Nanny?"

"Don't take that tone with me!" The landlady sounded as if she were scolding a small child. "A page boy just delivered a telegram for you, and you can come down and get it yourself!"

Holmes quickly re-locked Anne's room and hurried downstairs with Watson at his heels. An envelope had been placed on the hall table. The detective ripped it open eagerly to read the contents.

RECEIVED WORD OF NEW SPADE MURDER. STOP. NO 5 FOREST ROAD ST JOHNS WOOD. STOP. COME IMMEDIATELY. STOP. LESTRADE. STOP.


	3. Chapter 3

**I suppose I should take the time now to mention and thank a good friend of mine, Harli, who's been haunting this site for years but, for reasons unknown, stubbornly refuses to get an account. Since she practically begged me to write this, it's only fair that I should give her a mention. Thanks, Harli. You created a monster when you introduced me to Sherlock Holmes.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own diddly squat. If I did, the world would know it.**

* * *

Chapter 3

With the exception of being in the same borough, the victim at St. John's Wood was almost completely different from the previous murder. The man was unmarried and in his late fifties. He had been killed in his bedroom, not the library, and had been stabbed through the heart, not the throat. The only thing the two seemed to have in common was their wealth. That, and a black spade painted on the forehead.

While Watson was examining the body, Holmes took the opportunity to look the room over. There had to be something the others had missed. All the answers were there; one simply had to look for them. The chimney, for example, could be ruled out as a point of entry. The room was far too clean. If Henry Davis, assuming that's who it was, had used the chimney, he would have gotten soot everywhere.

Soot everywhere? That was curious. Why would there be soot in the fireplace when it was almost July? The nights weren't _that_ cold. Holmes bent down in front of the grate to examine the ashes and, sure enough, found the burnt corner of a playing card. He tucked the scrap in his pocket as he stood and dusted his hands off.

The window was his next point of inspection. At a quick glance, it appeared it hadn't been tampered with, but Holmes knew better than that. A closer look told him that somebody had hung from the tree branch nearby and used a prybar to pull the window shut from the outside. Quite clever, really. Lestrade and his men would expect to find the markings on the bottom of the windowpane, not the top. Perhaps he'd bring the location of the scratches to their attention just to watch them puzzle over it.

"The butler found him like this a little over an hour ago," Lestrade was saying, watching with a curious expression as Holmes roamed about the room, seemingly not paying any attention. "Claims he heard nothing last night and that the rest of the staff are taking stock of any missing items."

"Fascinating," Holmes muttered, still examining the window. "Lestrade, how old do you suppose that tree is?"

The Inspector didn't answer.

"I'd place the time of death between seven and nine hours ago," Watson called from the opposite end of the room. "Lividity is already fixed and rigor is beginning to set in. If the butler found him an hour ago, that would put the time of death somewhere between two and four o'clock this morning."

One of the constables immediately began scribbling down the information in his notebook. Holmes watched him for a couple seconds before his attention was directed elsewhere. The two Pinkerton agents, Morris and Henley, were earnestly discussing something with another constable in the hallway. The detective had been exceedingly annoyed when he'd learned that the Americans had beaten him and Watson to the crime scene by a good quarter of an hour. What was it with Americans and poking their noses in where they didn't belong? They had their colony; wasn't that enough for them? No, of course not. They just had to send two of them back across the pond to foul up his investigation.

Lestrade watched Holmes' growing frustration with great amusement.

"Is there a problem, Holmes?"

"Am I required to share my findings with these two proletarians?"

"These two 'proletarians' are representing their country's federal government."

"That's a 'yes,' I take it?"

"Absolutely. And if I suspect for one moment that you're withholding information, I'll have you thrown out of here on your ear."

Holmes let out a scoff and turned away like a sulky child who'd just been told he had to share his favorite toy with a cousin he didn't like. Watson finished his examination, shared a few words with one of the constables, and joined his friend by the window.

"It wouldn't hurt for you to cooperate, you know."

"Watson," Holmes said reproachfully, "you say that as if I don't know how to be a team player."

"You don't," the doctor stated bluntly.

"Yes, I do. However, I often choose not to be."

"I don't believe it."

"It's true."

"Prove it to me, then," Watson challenged. "Here comes Henley now. Listen to what he has to say with an open mind and refrain from belittling him and making snide remarks. Prove to me that you can actually cooperate with someone besides yourself."

Holmes opened his mouth to argue the point some more, but snapped it shut as the American agent approached.

"I just spoke with some of the staff. Apparently, Mr. Hopewell had become well-acquainted with an American man by the name of David McFarland, and entertained him and some other close friends just last week. Morris is getting their names now. 'David McFarland' is an alias Davis used when he was in Ohio. So tell me, Mr. Holmes, do you still believe it's not the same man?"

Holmes blinked.

"I never said I did not believe you and I are after the same man."

"You didn't need to." There was just the faintest hint of a smug chuckle in Henley's voice. "It's quite clear what you thought of my suggestion this morning."

"You are mistaken, my brash young friend. I merely thought that it is rather reckless to make an assumption based on coincidences and circumstantial evidence."

"But I am correct in saying you did not believe my theory this morning," Henley observed.

"No, you are not. However, I am willing to admit that your hypothesis holds more credibility now than it did an hour ago."

"Henley, get over here." Morris' voice had the tone of an exasperated owner chasing after a disobedient pup.

"We'll have to keep an eye on this one, Watson," Holmes murmured as the agent joined his partner at the door. "He's certainly more perceptive than he initially lets on. I wonder what else he's hidden from us."

"You think he's withholding some information pertaining to the murders?"

"I know he is. It's simply a matter of what and why. I hope he changes his mind and decides to come clean. I'd hate to have to resort to drugging him. How did I do, by the way?"

"With what?" Watson asked absently.

"With cooperating. Did I cooperate to your satisfaction?"

"That depends. Did you listen with an open mind?"

Holmes gave his friend a long-suffering sigh.

"Watson, if my mind were any more open, it would be taking a stroll through Hyde Park. I'm not entirely sure it's not doing that already."

"The brain of Sherlock Holmes walking down the sidewalk," Watson mused aloud. "That conjured up a very disturbing idea."

"All right, you've had your fun, now tell me: Were my cooperation tactics to your standards?"

"There is room for improvement. You argued with him a bit more than necessary."

"I did not argue with him. I was correcting his inaccurate assumptions."

"That's arguing, Holmes."

"I fail to see how."

Watson sighed. He couldn't win. There was absolutely no way to win an argument against Sherlock Holmes. Heaven knew he'd tried. There were times when Watson wondered if Holmes had been put on Earth simply to see how high he could make another person's blood pressure rise.

A commotion downstairs interrupted his train of thought. Shouts rang out, followed by a cry of "Oy! Watch it, will yer?" and a young boy of about ten years suddenly burst into the room. Lestrade caught him by the collar.

"Hold up, son. What's all this about?"

"Been runnin' all over this neighborhood, I have," the boy said cheekily. "Missus Williams sent me, sir. Needs 'elp and needs it quick."

"Williams?" Watson's eyes narrowed. "The woman whose husband was murdered yesterday?"

"Yes, sirs. It's 'er maid. She's terrible sick, sir. Not too long for this world, I should think, but she wants a doctor real bad an' says she needs to tell Mr. Holmes something important."

Holmes didn't wait a moment longer. He left the house immediately with Watson and a constable in tow.

* * *

Had the boy arrived half an hour earlier, the maid might have survived and made a full confession. However, the time spent searching out Holmes and Watson had cost them dearly, and there was little more the detective could do but watch as his friend signed the death certificate. He now stood uncomfortably in the parlor a healthy distance away from the recently-widowed Mrs. Williams, who was now mourning the loss of her maid as well. Her nerves were in shambles; she probably thought the entire household would be murdered one by one.

Charles Henley had arrived at the Williams home just a few minutes after Holmes and Watson, stating that Morris had wanted him to gain whatever information he possibly could. Holmes dearly wanted to ask the American if he possibly could avoid interfering further with an important investigation, but decided not to. If Lestrade got word that the detective was being unaccommodating, he'd pull him and Watson off the case and refuse them access without another word. Not that such a thing would stop Holmes from investigating, of course. It was just nice to have the Yard's cooperation and approval. There was less a chance of getting arrested that way.

Watson appeared in the doorway and motioned to Holmes. He gratefully left the parlor and its sobbing occupant to join his colleague in the hall. To his immense disgust, Henley followed.

"Well?" Holmes prompted.

"From the other domestics' accounts," Watson began, "it appears that the maid died of solanine poisoning. She exhibited many of the symptoms: nausea, vomiting, irregular heartbeat, hallucinations, fever, paralysis. Somebody poisoned her with nightshade."

"How long does it take before someone starts showing symptoms?" Henley asked.

"Anywhere from eight to twelve hours, depending on the concentration of the dose. If the dosage was very high, it could only take half an hour."

"So, Davis kills Hopewell sometime early this morning, and then comes back and poisons Williams' maid? Why?"

"I believe your government sent you here to figure out just that," Holmes said snidely. "We should question the rest of the staff. Watson, see if you can calm the woman down. You," he pointed at Henley, "come with me. Now that you're here, you might as well make yourself useful."

Henley dutifully followed Holmes to the kitchen where they found the cook, an elderly buxom woman with a face that would stop a coal barge, rummaging through a cupboard. She turned around and glowered at the two men, pointing her wooden spoon at them accusingly.

"I've spoke with your doctor friend and I want you to know right now that I have searched this kitchen from one end to the other and not found a single trace of the nightshade he claims killed Lucy!"

"Just because you've yet to find a trace of it does not mean that it was not used to poison her," Holmes replied calmly, ignoring the sudden outburst. "Do you keep any medicinal herbs here?"

"What do I look like, a bloody apothecary?"

"It is possible that the nightshade was mixed in with other herbs to conceal it. Did the maid eat or drink anything the rest of the household did not?"

The cook's eyes widened.

"Are you suggesting, sir, that this deranged assassin broke in to _my _kitchen and poisoned _only_ Lucy's food? Only Lucy's and nobody else's?"

"Yes, madam, that is exactly what I am suggesting."

"That is absolutely absurd! What reason would anybody have to poison her? Lucy might've been a little flighty and I might not have had much use for her, but she wasn't the sort of girl a person went around poisoning! Furthermore, if somebody had been in this kitchen who was not supposed to be, I most certainly would have heard it! Never in all my life have I heard such a load of tripe!"

She stormed out of the kitchen, mumbling incoherently. Henley watched her go.

"That was nicely handled," he muttered.

Holmes turned to him.

"And I suppose you believe that you can do better?"

"Certainly. I don't let my suspects walk out on me."

"I'll thank you not to—"

"Excuse me? Am I interrupting something?"

There was an older woman in the doorway. Judging by her attire, she was obviously another maid. She nervously entered the kitchen.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, sirs, but I think I know something that might help you. For several weeks now, Lucy has been— well, _had_ been— sneaking out in the evenings to meet with somebody. She seemed quite enamored with the man and spoke highly of him."

"Did she ever mention his name?" Holmes asked.

The woman gave it some thought.

"Not a full name," she recalled. "She always referred to him as 'her Henry.' Her term of endearment, I suppose. Seemed to think he was wealthy and that he was going to make her wealthy, as well. I'm not sure why she seemed to think he was a gentleman; I never much cared for the way he looked."

"You've seen him?" Henley's voice was shrill with excitement. "What did he look like? Describe him."

"Seen him twice and didn't care for him either time. I know breeding when I see it, and this man was certainly not from the high stature Lucy claimed he was. Not well-turned out at all. Seedy clothes, low brow, close-set eyes, bushy hair, unshaven, squared-off jaw and chin, crooked nose; he looked like a ruffian!"

"Did he have a scar on the right side of his face? About right here?" The Pinkerton ran his index finger across his face, starting up by the nose and ending near the top lip.

"Yes, he did," the woman said with a slight shudder. "Terrible-looking thing it was."

Henley started scribbling the information down in a notebook.

"Thank you, ma'am. You've been extremely helpful."

The woman gave a slight curtsy and left the kitchen. Henley tucked the notebook back in his pocket.

"Well, that pretty much proves that— Mr. Holmes? What are you doing?"

Holmes had his back turned, digging his way through a spice cupboard, removing tins and either smelling or tasting their contents. With a triumphant smirk, he turned around and set a small can on the table. It had "Lucy's Tea" written on the side with chalk.

"I believe I've found the method in which the maid was poisoned."

"Mr. Holmes, did you hear a single word that woman said?"

"Certainly. The maid had a clandestine lover who matches the description of Henry Davis and was foolish enough to use his real name when he met with her." Holmes grabbed the can and left the room. "Come along, Mr. Henley. As you Americans say, we have bigger fish to fry!"

* * *

Watson had finally had some success in calming down Mrs. Williams. The woman was still terribly upset, but at least she wasn't raving about being murdered in her bed anymore. Holmes held the tin up as he entered the room.

"Mrs. Williams, do you recognize this?"

The woman dabbed her face with a handkerchief as she looked up.

"No. Should I?"

"It's labeled 'Lucy's Tea.'"

Mrs. Williams' eyes widened with recollection.

"Oh, yes, I remember. Lucy was always fooling around with teas and things. Very particular about them. She never wanted anyone else to bother with them."

Holmes removed the lid and poked his finger around in the dried leaves, taking a sniff. He held something up between his thumb and forefinger.

"This, I believe, is the method in which your maid was poisoned. Somebody slipped the nightshade in with her experimental tea. It being experimental, she would have been expecting it to taste a bit odd. Therefore, she was not alarmed at the peculiar flavor. By the time she realized something was wrong, it was too late."

Mrs. Williams' sobbing began anew and Holmes decided to direct his attention elsewhere. Something on the mantle caught his eye. It was a sketching on Mr. and Mrs. Williams done in charcoal pencil and ink. He took a step toward the mantle to view it better.

"Forgive me for pointing, ma'am, but this drawing," he gestured to it. "Where was it done?"

Mrs. Williams looked up, daubing her eyes with the handkerchief.

"In Hyde Park," she explained. "Just last week. On Thursday."

"Who was the artist?"

She had to think for a moment.

"A young lady," she finally said. "Yes, it was a young lady. Shabbily-dressed, but a very sweet girl. American, I think, or Canadian. It was hard to tell. She barely said a word, but was quite soft-spoken and very polite."

Holmes pondered at this new detail.

"Mrs. Williams, will you permit me to take the sketching for further analysis?"

Her face registered immense surprise.

"O-of course, if you think it will help find my husband's killer." The lady narrowed her eyes. "Do you think that artist had something to do with my husband's death? Or perhaps Lucy's?"

"Everyone is entitled to being under suspicion," Holmes replied, removing the sketch from its frame. "I will not be limiting my investigation to Hyde Park artists."

"Might I see it, Mr. Holmes?" Henley asked, stepping forward. Holmes begrudgingly handed the artwork to him and watched as he examined it. There was a curios expression on his face.

"You say this was done by an artist in Hyde Park?" He inquired, still looking it over.

"Yes, it was."

"By a young lady? Not a boy?"

"Yes. I'm certain it was a young lady."

"Hmm. Fascinating," he murmured. "Excellent craftwork." He passed the sketching back to Holmes. "I believe I've learned everything I need for today. If you'll excuse me, I need to report back to my colleague."

The boy put on his hat and left without another word. Holmes set the tea tin and its sinister contents on the mantle.

"I'm afraid there is little else we can do today. If you'll excuse us, Mrs. Williams, Dr. Watson and I have other matters to attend to."

Holmes and Watson left the house, leaving the constable to finish up his statement. Once out on the street, the doctor drew up alongside Holmes, matching his pace.

"Why did you want that sketching of Mr. and Mrs. Williams?"

"The ink intrigues me."

Watson gave him a deadpan look.

"Holmes, you and I both know you have absolutely no interest in art. Now tell me, why did you take that sketching?"

He took the paper from his pocket and handed it to the doctor.

"Recognize the drawing style? It's the same kind Miss Satterfield has. And take a closer look at her rendering of Mr. Williams."

Watson inspected the paper closer. Drawn on the edge of Mr. Williams' cheek, just faintly, was a spade.

"You think a seventeen-year-old girl slit Mr. Williams' throat and poisoned his maid?" He asked skeptically, handing the drawing back.

"Your deductions are rather amusing, Watson. No, I don't think Miss Satterfield murdered Mr. Hopewell, Mr. Williams, or his maid. On the contrary, I'm supposing something entirely different."

"Then why did you want the sketching?"

"The young lady's drawing style could offer tremendous insights into her character. I've suspected for weeks that there is something she's not telling. Whether or not it truly connects to the murders remains to be seen, but rest assured, Watson, I fully intend to find out."

**

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**

Review? Maybe? I'd like to know what I'm doing wrong.


	4. Chapter 4

**Reviews or not, I'll continue to update. I know somebody's reading this. That's not to say reviews aren't wanted or appreciated. I'd love to have a couple.**

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* * *

Chapter 4

Anne Satterfield paused for a moment at the street corner to adjust her art satchel, and leaned against the lamppost, panting. She felt as if she'd run all the way from Hyde Park. Breathlessly, she turned around and saw a familiar cap sticking out from the throng of people. Feeling panic rise up again, she darted across the street. She had to get away. She couldn't let him see her. The moment her identified her, the game was up. Baker Street was just a few block away; she could make it.

It was strange that although she'd only been there a month, and although she didn't really think of the place as a home, it had become a symbol of safety. The knowledge that she had a physical residence, and, in a way, a place to hide, was comforting. Now, all she had to do was get rid of her shadow.

Easier said than done.

She'd seen him loitering around the park that afternoon, although she was fairly certain he hadn't seen her. Not properly, at least. If he had, he definitely would have approached her. When he'd gotten too close, Anne had packed up her belongings and left. To her immense disgust, he'd followed her, trying to get a better look at the elusive artist. He kept his distance, always several yards behind, but he was relentless. He'd dogged her from Hyde Park, through the Mayfair and Marylebone districts, and now to the corner of Baker Street. She had to give credit where credit was due; he was an excellent tail. But she knew how to lose him.

Anne purposefully went past Baker Street, crossed at the corner, and doubled back. Sure enough, there was her shadow on the opposite side, still trying to catch a glimpse of her up ahead. She casually swiped a forgotten piece of cloth from the gutter and covered it over her hair like a scarf, just in case he decided to check behind him. Fortunately, he didn't. Unfortunately, he turned around and started back the way he'd come.

Determined to lose him once and for all, Anne ducked into the alleyway that ran behind the houses on Baker Street and plopped down next to a crate, making her look like any of the other beggars and tramps who loitered such areas. She waited with baited breath as he passed by, giving the alley the briefest of glances before going on his way.

Anne breathed a sigh of relief. She was free of him. She could go back around the corner and go inside. She stood and started to leave, but froze. What if he realized he'd been tricked and turned around again? He'd see her for sure then, and all would be lost. She couldn't let that happen. She _wouldn't_ let that happen.

After a quick peek to ensure that the shadow was truly gone, Anne pulled the slimy scarf out of her hair and tossed it back in the gutter where it belonged. If her calculations were correct, the back lot, or whatever it was the English called that area, of Number 221 should be just a few yards away. That would be her method of entry.

She scurried off down the alley and located the back of 221. Somebody had conveniently left a window open on the stairwell. That was perfect. She wouldn't have to try to raise it while dangling from the windowsill. Anne slipped her satchel off, took aim, and tossed it inside.

* * *

Baker Street was unusually quiet that evening. Actually, now that Mrs. Hudson thought about the matter, it was _disturbingly_ quiet. Dr. Watson had gone out for the evening, leaving Holmes alone in his rooms to contemplate whatever it was he felt needed contemplating. She hadn't heard a peep from upstairs since the doctor left. That worried her. If there was one thing Sherlock Holmes had in common with a small child, it was that silence was not a good thing.

Recalling that she'd left a tea tray upstairs the previous afternoon and had yet to retrieve it, Mrs. Hudson decided it would make the perfect excuse to go check on him. She went up to the second floor and lingered outside the detective's door, listening intently. It was still dead silent inside. When she received no response after she knocked, the landlady opened the door and entered to find Sherlock Holmes by the fireplace… standing on his head.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Oh. Good evening, Nanny."

"What in Heaven's name are you doing?"

"A failed experiment. I seem to be having trouble with my shoelaces. Would you be so kind as to get me loose?"

The laces, for some utterly bizarre reason she could not even begin to fathom, had been looped together and tied around one of the gas lamps on the wall. The situation was so funny, Mrs. Hudson was half-tempted to leave him there, but changed her mind at his beseeching, red-faced look. She undid the shoelaces, grabbed her tea tray, and left without a word.

Holmes balanced for a second and toppled over with a loud thud. Awakened by the noise, Gladstone lumbered over from his spot by the fireplace, flopped back down in front of Holmes, and proceeded to lick his master on the face. Holmes pushed the dog away with a grimace of disgust.

"Get away. What on Earth has Watson been feeding you?"

Apparently hurt by the harsh words, the bulldog plodded a few steps away and sat down, the picture of dejection. Holmes stood up and stretched, working the kinks out of his neck. He ignored the reproachful look the dog gave him as he crossed the room to his armchair. He started to sit down, but jumped back up with a yelp and spun around. Edgar the cat had taken up residence in the chair and now sat glaring balefully at the detective. Holmes glared back.

"Move," he ordered.

The cat stared at him.

"Oh, come now. I know you're more intelligent than that. If you're smart enough to hate me for no apparent reason, you're smart enough to know what 'move' means."

He still refused to budge. Fed up with the animal, Holmes grabbed his violin bow and brandished it in front of the chair. Edgar let out a warning hiss when the bow prodded his side, and stood up, arching his back. Holmes ignored the threat and continued poking and prodding the cat, edging him closer to the edge of the chair. After a particularly sharp jab to the ribs, Edgar finally came unhinged. He sprung up, sinking his claws and teeth into the bow and growling. Holmes gingerly lifted the angry cat from the chair and shook the bow violently. Edgar lost his hold on the bow and tumbled to the floor in a flurry of hissing and spitting, but not before giving Holmes a good clawing to the shin. The detective let out a yell of pain and scuttled back to avoid the claws, but it was too late. The damage was done. Tail lashing furiously, Edgar stalked from the room.

Holmes cursed under his breath and rolled up his trouser leg to inspect the wound. It was bleeding. Not profusely, but enough that it required bandaging. He grabbed a handkerchief from the table and wrapped it around the leg as a temporary dressing. He'd let Watson look at it later. There was no telling what kind of diseases that mangy cat carried. At the moment, however, he was more concerned with his trousers. There were three nice slashes torn through the fabric. Blast that wretched animal. He'd liked this pair. He'd pilfered them out of Watson's wardrobe one afternoon when he'd needed a quick disguise and had neglected to return them. Now that they were ruined, he supposed the doctor could have them back.

Gladstone seemed to sense his master's irritation. The bulldog came over and gave him a comforting lick on the hand. Holmes wiped his fingers on the now-ruined trousers, set the violin bow on the table, and grabbed his pipe. In less than a minute, he was slumped down in the armchair, puffing away.

Now was the time for contemplation.

He'd been on the case for just over twenty-four hours, and already he had a wealth of information. He knew the murderer's name, where he'd come from, and some of the other crimes he'd committed. He knew said murderer had become well-acquainted with at least two of the victims, particularly the maid. Perhaps he'd enticed her into letting him inside the night Williams was killed. Holmes didn't like to theorize before he had the full facts, but this seemed like the most logical explanation. It did not, however, explain how Davis got in Mr. Hopewell's house.

Then there were the two Pinkertons. Their methods were primitive and unorthodox at best, but what else could one expect from American law-enforcement? And not even true law-enforcement at that. They were agents-for-hire, sometimes working for the government, other times under the employ of private parties. Still, they knew Henry Davis and his methods quite well. That could prove useful in the future. On the other hand, since they thought they knew him well, such beliefs could potentially cloud their judgment and lead them into hazardous situations. That, most certainly, would _not_ be useful.

The playing card was a warning, obviously. Davis sent the ace of spades to his victims as a way of acknowledging the fact that they were to be his targets. Then, after waiting two days, he would strike, killing the person and taking whatever valuables he desired. That was the part which confounded Holmes the most. If the valuables were all Davis wanted, why kill the owners?

_He likes the idea that he's making a name for himself, _Morris' words echoed in the back of his mind. _He's crazy as a run-over dog._ Perhaps that was it. Perhaps the only reason Davis killed his targets was because on some twisted, sadistic level, he found enjoyment in it. That was reason enough for someone to turn to murder. They simply enjoyed killing. The fact that the man took time to send warnings to his victims supported the idea. It was a game to him.

A loud thud suddenly interrupted Holmes' speculations. He sat up, listening. This time, he heard a scraping sound, followed by another thump and a muffled curse. Unless he was sorely mistaken, somebody was trying to crawl through the window on the first floor stairwell, and they weren't doing a good job of it. He stood up, set his pipe on the table, and left the room, casually grabbing his revolver and slipping it in his pocket as he went.

A pair of pencil lead-smeared hands could be seen gripping the windowsill. The partially-opened window began to slide down, and one of the hands let go momentarily to push it back up.

"Stay up there, dang it."

"Miss Satterfield?"

If looks could kill, Sherlock Holmes would have been dead on sight. Anne's gray-blue eyes blazed in the evening light at the indignity of being caught hanging from a windowsill.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"What are you doing, if I may be so bold to ask?"

"At the moment, I'm trying to salvage my dignity. Do you mind?"

"My dear, I'm afraid it's a little too late for that." He reached out and offered his hand to her. She glared at it suspiciously. "I don't bite, you know," he added. Anne warily took the hand and allowed him to help her through the window.

"Thanks," she muttered.

"Why did you feel the need to crawl through a window to get inside?"

"Because I didn't feel like using the door," she retorted, bending down to pick up the leather satchel she always kept with her.

As she spoke, Holmes gave her a once-over. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a loose bun, but was slightly mussed and greasy-looking. The sleeves of her blouse were stained with ink and her skirt was splattered with mud. There was something black smeared on her left cheek. Was it ink? Coal? In the dim light it was hard to tell. She wasn't very tall, he observed. She couldn't have been a centimeter over five-foot-six, and she didn't have much of a figure, either. She was so scrawny she almost looked underfed. Her face wasn't exactly gaunt, but it was very lean and there were dark circles under her eyes. He suspected she hadn't been caring for her body's needs like she should. There was something else, he noticed. She looked tight-faced and nervous.

"What are you afraid of?"

"Nothing," she said curtly.

That was a lie. Holmes could tell by the look haunted in her eye that something had frightened her while she'd been out. Something that disturbed her enough to resort to crawling through an open window to avoid being seen. Before he could contemplate what it might've been, the girl spun on her heel and hurried upstairs, calling, "Goodnight, sir," over her shoulder.

"One moment, Miss Satterfield."

She stopped halfway up the stairs and turned to face him.

"Yes?"

"What sort of ink do you use in your sketchings?"

"I make my own, usually. Sometimes I might buy an ink if I want or need another color besides black, but for the most part I make it myself."

"Do you ever use iron gall ink?"

She shook her head.

"No. Never. After a while it starts to corrode the paper."

"I see. How often do you go to Hyde Park?"

Anne blinked in surprise at the abrupt change in topic.

"Mr. Holmes, I fail to see what that has to do with what kind of ink I use."

"Humor me. How often do you go to Hyde Park?"

"Almost every day. Why?"

"Were you there last Thursday?"

"Yes, I was. Why?"

"Did you do a sketching of a well-to-do couple?"

"Yes, I did. Why?"

"Were they from St. John's Wood?"

"Yes, I think they were. Why?"

"Was their name Williams?"

"Yes, I believe it was. _Why?"_

"Mr. Williams is dead."

Holmes watched her face as he told her this revelation. There was shock and surprise and perhaps a little regret, but no indication of a guilty conscience. No indication that he could observe, anyway, but he did notice something else. Suspicion. He could practically see the theories about how Williams had died forming in her mind. The look was suddenly replaced by one of dread. She swallowed nervously.

"How?" Her voice was apprehensive, as she didn't want to hear the answer.

"He was murdered, it is believed, by an American serial killer."

Holmes was testing her now, trying to find out how much she knew, for she certainly knew something. Her uneasiness was evident. She seemed more frightened now than she had a few minutes ago, and more guarded. One look told him that she thought he suspected her of having a hand in Williams' death.

"And you intend to capture the murderer?"

"Indeed I do," Holmes said, making his way up the stairs, "and much more. I intend to gather up _all_ my loose ends. Nice and neatly." He paused for a moment and smiled at her benignly before continuing upstairs. "Have a good evening, Miss Satterfield."

* * *

Anne turned the key in the lock and slumped against the door, burying her face in her hands. How could this have happened? She'd come to London to _escape_ trouble, not get herself buried in more. If only she'd known ahead of time that Holmes was a detective. She could have found someplace else to live. Or she could have stayed with the performers she'd been travelling with. At least they wouldn't have been so distrustful and prone to poking around in her affairs. They'd been happy to leave her alone. The knowledge that, on unspoken terms, one of her new housemates suspect her of murdering a man made her feel sick. She could read between the lines. She knew a threat when she heard one, and she knew what that little exchange on the stairs meant. Holmes was a detective investigating a murder, and he'd just added her to his list of suspects.

With a sigh of disgust, Anne tossed her satchel on the bed and watched the contents spill out and tumble onto the floor. She'd clean it up later. Or maybe never. The room was such a mess already; what was a few art supplies scattered around? It added to the ambience of despair that seemed to be smothering her. The sun's last rays cast the cluttered room in a red hue, except in the corners where it was now in shadow. It was a metaphor for her life in some sick, twisted way she couldn't quite fathom at the moment.

A scratch and a "mrrow" alerted Anne that Edgar was out in the hall. She unlocked the door and opened it just slightly. The cat slipped through the crack and padded into the room. Anne quickly locked the door again, this time removing the key and placing it in the top drawer of her desk. She slumped down in the chair, shoved some of the clutter out of the way, and rested her head on a pile of papers. Edgar leaped up onto the desk and started nudging and poking Anne's hand with his nose as if to say "Treat?"

"I don't have anything to eat, boy," she whispered, reaching up with her free hand to scratch him behind the ears. "I'm sorry."

Completely unfazed by this declaration, the cat started licking the fingers of her enclosed hand. Anne left off scratching his ears and began stroking his back, burying her face in his ebony fur.

"What am I going to do?" She asked him. "I should've stayed with the show. I'd be living in a tent, but at least I wouldn't have to put up with all this. Or I could've at least let Mr. Cody help me, but no, stubborn pride says, 'Don't need no help from nobody.' Thought I could take care of myself. Well, I'm doing a fine job of that, ain't I? Stuck in another country alone, no friends, no family, barely scraping by, nosy neighbors, and—" She sighed, suddenly realizing what she was doing. "And I'm talking to a cat."

That wasn't a good sign. Maybe she truly was devolving slowly into insanity. Her father had always said madness ran in his family. Maybe it was finally catching up with her. She raised her eyes to look out the window at the single star glimmering in the evening light.

"What did I do to deserve this?"

Edgar purred and brushed himself against her cheek, giving her a tiny reminder that she wasn't entirely alone.


	5. Chapter 5

****

Well, it certainly took me a lot longer than I thought it would to get this chapter finished. I've restorted to splitting it in half just to get it to a resonable length.

Disclaimer: I still own nothing except the OCs. If I did, I wouldn't be writing fanfiction, now would I?

* * *

Chapter 5

"You caught her doing _what?_"

"You heard me," Holmes calmly replied, ignoring his friend's exclamation. "She was crawling through the window downstairs."

Watson stared at him for a moment, trying to decide if the detective was serious.

"You're sure?"

"I think I know what a deranged young woman crawling through a window looks like," Holmes remarked dryly.

"I know I'll probably regret asking this, but aside from Irene Adler, just how many deranged young women have you had the chance to observe crawling through a window, Holmes?"

"Six and a half."

"Six and a _half?"_

"Yes. One of them got stuck."

Again, Watson studied his friend. Was this man serious? Or was it possible that Holmes was demonstrating his twisted sense of humor and pulling the doctor's leg?

"Holmes…"

"Yes?" He prompted when Watson didn't complete his sentence.

"Never mind. I don't want to know."

"Good. I assure you, you are probably correct in that declaration. Now that we have that sorted out, I suggest we turn our attention to more pressing matters."

"Such as?"

"Deciphering the reason as to why this young lady no longer feels that she can use the front door like a respectable person."

"I've caught _you_ scrambling out a window on more than one occasion," Watson pointed out.

"Yes, dear Watson, and _you_ are usually right behind me. If analyzing our American housemate is not pressing enough for you, perhaps we should analyze our American murderer. Hmm. I wonder, are all the folks across the pond as unstable as these two specimens? It does open up a fascinating area for conjecture."

"You think the girl's not entirely sane?"

"I'm glad you've finally come around to my way of thinking, Watson. I've been telling you that for the last three weeks."

Watson gave a sigh of exasperation.

"Holmes, I've spoke with the girl myself. She's not mad."

"And how, pray tell, could you possibly know that?"

"I'm a doctor. I'm paid to know these things. One only has to look at her and talk to her to see she is not mad. I'm afraid, for once, your theory doesn't ring true."

Holmes got up from his chair and began pacing around the room.

"But you did not see her last night, Watson. She was afraid and on edge even before I mentioned that Williams was dead. Telling her what had happened to him was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. Have you noticed that she has not left today? She's holed up in that room hiding from someone she encountered yesterday."

"Perhaps it's a guilty conscience," Watson offered. "It could be that she saw something yesterday which reminded her of Williams and made her feel guilty."

By this time, Holmes had made his way over to the window and was now watching the pedestrians on the street below.

"No," he murmured, "It's not a guilty conscience in a literal sense of the term. She was not the reason behind either of the two men's deaths, but she knows something. She seemed to be expecting my answer when I told her how Williams had died. How interesting…"

He suddenly wheeled around and darted across the room to the table, where he began applying something to his face. Watson straightened up, watching him with extreme interest and slight apprehension.

"Holmes, what are you doing?"

"Nothing."

"Then why the false moustache?"

"Merely a precaution," he muttered, daubing some gunk on his cheeks to make himself look significantly scruffier. Trading his pipe for a cigarette, Holmes grabbed a tattered old coat and left the room calling, "Be a good chap and close the window, will you?"

Watson listened to the receding footsteps, heard the window open, and rolled his eyes skyward with a sigh.

"Three… Two… One…"

After a particularly loud crash, Watson stood and went downstairs, glancing out the window just before he closed it. Holmes was nowhere in sight.

* * *

The alleyway was deserted when Holmes entered it. He straightened his coat, taking in everything as he walked along. The imprints of Anne's shoes were still clear in the dirt. He followed the tracks out, noting where she'd ducked behind the crate. In his mind, Holmes began to recreate the scene.

The impressions of her shoes where she'd entered the alley were the wrong direction to be coming from Hyde Park. Obviously, she had continued down the street beyond the alley and then doubled back for some reason. Such behavior was often demonstrated in a person who was trying to avoid another. A shadow, then. Somebody had tailed her from Hyde Park yesterday, and she had tried to get rid of him.

With that minor mystery solved, Holmes turned his attention to another matter. Charlie Henley was making his way down the street. Holmes couldn't have asked for a more perfect situation. If he ever wanted to find out more about the Pinkerton agent, now was his chance. He slipped out into the crowd and expertly tailed the boy out of the Baker Street area.

Judging from the unwavering and rather direct path he took, Henley had absolutely no idea he was being followed. Pity. Holmes would have enjoyed a challenge. Instead, he would have to content himself with how ridiculously American the boy looked on these English streets. The kid stuck out like a sore thumb, and it was fairly obvious that he did not care.

After a quarter-hour or so, Henley stopped at a street corner in front of a dingy-looking pub and leaned casually against a lamppost, staring off into the crowd. Presently, a burly man sporting a ragged pea jacket and a scraggly beard came up to the Pinkerton. The pair shook hands and entered the pub. Holmes sidled in behind them, grabbed a forgotten mug from a table, and situated himself in the corner as the two went up to the bar. The dock-worker, for Holmes could clearly see that's what he was, ordered a pint while Henley settled for a whiskey shot. The boy did not drink it, however, merely running his finger along the rim as he spoke.

"What have you found, Turner?"

"Not much," the man growled. "Just an empty apartment in Whitechapel. Here's the address if'n you want to take a look at it."

Turner took a scrap of paper from his pocket and slid it across the bar in Henley's direction. The Pinkerton read it before folding it up and tucking it in his hatband. He finally drank part of the shot.

"He wasn't there?"

"No. The rat must have found a better sewer."

Henley snarled in disgust and set his glass down.

"We almost had him," he muttered. "I'll look in anyway. There might be some clue as to where he's gone."

"Weren't nothing out of the ordinary that I could see." Turner paused to sip his beer. "Looked the place over m'self and didn't find a thing. 'Course, I wasn't too sure what to look for, to be honest, but I don't think Davis'd be foolish enough to leave a trail for the police to follow. By the by, how are you and Morris faring with that police detective?"

"Lestrade?"

"No, the tall bloke."

"Ah, Holmes."

"Yes, that's the one."

Henley gave a snort.

"He's not with the police. He's only a consultant."

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but is that not what you are as well?"

"Pinkerton detectives work for an actual agency. We're commissioned by state or federal authorities, or we're hired by private individuals. We have people we are required to answer to. This fella, on the other hand, is a law unto himself. He's playing his cards close to his vest, that's for sure. I'm sure he's keeping something about this case to himself and because he's not with the actual police force, he's under no obligation to share his findings with anyone else, including the folks who've been on this case for almost a year."

Holmes found himself biting his lip in an attempt to not laugh. Was that what the American thought? If only he knew that Lestrade had practically threatened to lock Holmes up if he refused to cooperate. Still, the information he was withholding did not exactly pertain to the Davis case. Lestrade couldn't be angry with him for that.

"Did you hear anything from your brother?"

"No." Henley's voice was rough, as if he were trying to disguise his emotion. "I don't know what got into him. He disappeared two weeks after the fiasco in Chicago. It's not the first time he's done something like that, but he always writes. He always lets someone know where he is, but this time neither Morris or me have heard anything out of him." He hesitated for a second before admitting, "I'm worried about him."

"It's only natural," Turner said with a shrug. "You're his older brother. It's only natural that you want to protect him, but from what you've told me, I daresay the boy can take care of himself."

"I know. That's probably what's wrong with me. I haven't been able to concentrate properly since I got here. You know, I actually thought I saw the little imp running down the street yesterday."

A heavy silence followed. Turner finally drained the rest of his beer and stood up.

"Well, I'd best be off." He started to leave, but stopped and turned around, suddenly recalling something. "There's one other thing. Davis has somebody else working for him."

"Who?"

"I don't know. I haven't managed to get his name yet, or what he looks like, but I know for certain he's every bit as dangerous as Davis. I'd watch my back carefully if I were you, Henley."

With that parting remark, the man left. Henley lingered at the bar a while longer before downing the rest of the shot, slapping down a handful of coins, and exiting the pub. Holmes set his prop mug on the table and hurried out into the street. Henley was already gone, as was Turner. There was no point in trying to guess where they'd went, so Holmes opted to return to Baker Street. He'd just made it to the street corner when a pair of burly hands grabbed him by the coat collar, hauled him roughly into an alley, and slammed him against the wall.

"'Tain't polite to eavesdrop on a body like that, my friend."

"Somehow," Holmes gasped, feeling the air being squished out of him, "I doubt we're friends."

Turner grunted an affirmative, still keeping the detective pinned to the wall. Holmes felt his mind working rapidly as he ran through various methods of escape. How the blazes had Turner known his conversation with Henley had been listened in on? No matter. The important thing at the moment was enticing the dock-worker to release him. But how? The big man outweighed him by a good forty pounds and was squeezing the life out of him at the moment. Could he lash out quickly and break the man's nose? No, the force would probably break his hand instead. Perhaps fake some sort of nervous attack convincingly enough to get the man to let go and then make a run for it? No, that was cowardly. The grip was starting to tighten. Ulnar nerve. He could use the ulnar nerve.

Holmes ran his fingers along Turner's hand, searching for the location where the bones of the thumb and first finger joined, and quickly jabbed his own thumb into the spot. Turner bellowed in pain and released his grip momentarily. Holmes slipped free. Now to incapacitate the aggressor.

A swift uppercut, a heavy blow to the stomach, and a good right cross later, Turner was out for the count, and Sherlock Holmes was halfway to Baker Street.

* * *

While Holmes was gone, Watson briefly considered cleaning up the sitting room, but quickly banished the notion. Holmes would murder him if he came back and found everything neat and orderly. Besides that, there was no way he could sufficiently clean the room in just a few hours. It would take days to do a decent job.

The doctor had just sat down with the intent of reading a novel when the front door opened and slammed shut. There were footsteps on the stairs, followed by a yell for Mrs. Hudson to bring up a tray, before Holmes entered the room.

"Thank you, Watson, for refraining from tidying up," he said, flopping down into an armchair and grabbing his violin.

"How did you—? Never mind."

"Simple. You started to rearrange those papers on the table, and then stopped. Obviously, you intended to clean the room, but changed your mind, for which I am exceedingly grateful. I cannot abide such disorder."

Mrs. Hudson entered at that moment, bearing a tea tray. She placed it on the table, giving Holmes a disdainful glance at his disreputable appearance, and left without a word. Holmes took the hint and began removing the mustache. Watson set his book down.

"Did you learn anything of interest during your little venture?"

"I certainly did. One, I was absolutely correct in believing that Charles Henley has been withholding information. And two, his contacts in the London Underworld are almost as extensive as my own. I shall, unfortunately, have to consult him on this." He paused, suddenly noticing the room was empty of its most-common occupant. "What happened to Gladstone?"

"He followed Miss Satterfield back upstairs after she made a brief appearance to grab a cup of coffee from the kitchen about two hours ago," Watson told him. "With that minor exception, she's been up there all day doing Heaven knows what. I wouldn't have even known she'd left her room if I hadn't heard him following her. Do you suppose the girl was a cat burglar in a past life? She's so quiet it's uncanny."

"I suspect it comes from that Cherokee ancestry she mentioned. American Indians are known for being exceptionally silent." Holmes paused in the middle of removing the mustache to listen to the curious noises upstairs. "She's packing her belongings," he stated.

"What does that mean?"

"She's going to run," Holmes declared, ripping the mustache the rest of the way off. "Whomever she encountered yesterday has frightened her enough that she no longer feels safe here."

He was interrupted suddenly by the sound of feet thumping up the stairs. The door flew open and a tow-headed boy around ten years old burst into the room crying, "He's coming, Mr. Holmes! Both of 'em is!"

Holmes sprang from the chair.

"How far away are they?"

"Left 'em 'bout three blocks over. Wig sent me on ahead to tell you, sir."

"Excellent work, Percy, well done."

The boy's bright blue eyes fairly glowed at the praise.

"Who is coming?" Watson asked.

"Those two blokes what Mr. Holmes asked me'n Wig to keep an eye on," Percy explained, waiting until Holmes had his back turned to sneak some morsels off the tea tray. "Been followin' 'em around for near two days now, we 'ave."

"And who are 'they?'"

"Morris and Henley," Holmes told him, working quickly to remove any traces of his previous disguise. "I detailed Wiggins and some of the Irregulars to watch their movements and alert me if they warranted any interest."

"Took some doin', it did," Percy informed them through a mouthful of biscuit. "Tha' younger one knows how to get rid of a shadow properly an' no mistake. Thought I'd lost 'im once or twice."

"Well done, just the same. Here," Holmes tossed a pair of coins to the little Irregular. "One for you and one for Wiggins. Now, make yourself scarce. We can't have them seeing you, can we?"

"Righto!" Percy gave a crisp, cheeky salute, impetuously nicked some sugar cubes from the tray, and darted out the door without another word.

Watson looked around the cluttered room and gave a long-suffering sigh when he saw Holmes stuffing part of his previous disguise down in the cushions of the sofa.

"You really should consider cleaning up a bit if we're going to have visitors on such frequent occasions."

"Nonsense," Holmes muttered. "The room is fine how it is. If our clients have issues with my housekeeping abilities, they can consult another consulting detective."

"Holmes, there are no other consulting detectives."

"My point exactly."

He just barely managed to shove the mustache underneath the cushion when the door opened and Morris and Henley were shown in. He straightened up and greeted the pair with such cordialness that Watson couldn't help but feel a little distrustful.

"Ah, Mr. Henley, Mr. Morris, a pleasure to see you both again so soon. Pray, have a seat. Has Lestrade made any headway on the case?"

Watson found himself feeling more apprehensive at Holmes' tone. What the devil was he up to? The insufferable man clearly knew something the Americans didn't, and had purposefully chosen to leave Watson in the dark as well. Was it his imagination, or had Holmes looked up at the ceiling more often the usual? He shook the feeling off as the Pinkertons sat down. Henley nodded apologetically to their hosts.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, we're sorry to call on you at such a late hour, but we've stumbled across something important and felt it shouldn't wait." Henley paused to glance up at the ceiling at a rather suspicious-sounding thump and some muffled grumbling. He looked back at the detective. "What was that?"

"A fellow lodger," Holmes told him. "From the sound of things, she's in the process of hiding a body in the closet again. You were saying?"

Watson shot him a look. What _was_ he playing at? Charlie settled back in his chair, evidently deciding that Holmes was only joking about the lodger being a murderer.

"Anyway, my contacts through the Pinkertons is rather extensive, and I have a few fellows under my direction right now in regards to the Davis case. One of them managed to find an address in Whitechapel just this morning. We believe he may have been staying there, but that he's left. Morris and I intend to pay the place a visit tomorrow morning since it's getting too late to do anything this evening." The boy suddenly gritted his teeth, clearly irritated with what he was about to say next. "Since you and your colleague are involved with the case, we thought it only fair to inform you."

"You're asking us to come along?" Holmes asked in mock-surprise.

"Only because you seem more competent than those fellas at Scotland Yard."

Holmes glanced over at Watson with a smirk.

"Watson, I do believe we've found a man after our own hearts."

"Holmes, knock it off."

The detective turned his attention back to the Pinkertons.

"Fair enough," he said. "Would you prefer to meet here or at Davis' former lodgings?"

Morris and Henley exchanged a look before the older man answered.

"Whatever's easiest for you. We can give you the address and you can—"

"Gladstone! Bring that back! Bad dog!"

The bulldog lumbered down the stairs and came to rest in front of the door. In his mouth and trailing behind him was a piece of cloth Watson recognized as Anne Satterfield's scarf. The owner herself came running down the stairs, skipping the last step, and landing in front of the wayward dog. She got down on her hands and knees, trying to pry the scarf from his mouth.

"Give that back," she grumbled. "It's not a toy."

"Ruth!"

The men in the room turned to look at Henley. The young Pinkerton was sitting bolt upright in his chair, looking at Anne as if he'd seen a ghost. His face was ashen and his hands gripped the armrests so hard that his knuckles were white.

"Yeah, wha— no." She glanced up from Gladstone for a moment to look at the men in the room. The color drained from her cheeks when her eyes landed on Henley. She drew back with a gasp, as if she'd been bitten by something.

"_No!_"

Forgetting the scarf, Anne jumped up and ran for the stairs. Henley leaped out of his chair and ran after her.

"Ruth, wait a minute!"

"Get away from me, you devil!"

Watson and Morris followed the Pinkerton and reached the top of the stairs just in time to see Anne's door slam shut. Henley slid to a stop jiggled the knob. The door didn't budge.

"Ruth, please open the door."

"Go away!"

"Please?"

"I'm not helping you anymore!"

Holmes came up the stairs and halted at the landing, watching Henley desperately try to force the door open. The detective looked over at Morris, a wry smile forming on his mouth.

"Do we need to throw your partner out for ungentlemanly behavior?"

The old man sighed.

"No. I hate to be the one to say this, but they've been this way since they were children." He shook his head in disbelief. "Ruth hidin' out in London," he said to himself. "Who'da thought it?"

Henley ran his hand through his hair in exasperation, catching sight of his audience. He grinned at them sheepishly and then turned back to the door.

"Ruth," he called through the keyhole, "I'm really sorry. You know I am. I'd change what happened if I could. Won't you let me apologize?"

"Blow it out your ear!"

He drew back, either stung by the comment or startled by the large thud that accompanied it. It sounded as if the girl was shoving her desk against the door in an effort to keep him out. He leaned forward again.

"Ruth, please listen—" He froze. There was a noise coming from the other room that Watson recognized as a gun being cocked.

"I've got the LeMat, Charlie." The girl's voice was menacing. "I suggest you leave."

Henley beat a hasty retreat and joined his companions.

"I'm not arguing with a revolver," he muttered. "Not with her."

"I wouldn't either," Morris called, making his way back downstairs. "That girl's about as friendly as a mountain cat when you get her riled."

Holmes stood watching the closed door for a moment. To Watson's surprise, he didn't seem the least bit shocked at this new revelation as he turned and pointed to the young Pinkerton.

"Mr. Henley, I think you owe us an explanation."

* * *

**Yeah, Henley, care to talk your way outta this one? ;)**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sort of a continuation of Chapter 5, but not really. As far as I know, what Holmes states about Watson in this chapter is accurate, or at least generally accepted as canon. Mrs. Hudson's mini-biography, however, I made up, so feel free to dispute as you like. As always, reviews are welcome.**

**Disclaimer: I still lay no claim to Doyle's wonderful characters. The Pinkertons and Anne/Ruth/Travis/whatever-other-aliases-she's-dreamed-up are mine, though. Edgar, being a cat, owns himself.**

* * *

Chapter 6

It was well after ten o'clock that night when Holmes heard the door creak open upstairs. He sat in the armchair he kept shoved next to the door, listening to the sound of footsteps on the landing. Sure enough, she was coming. He could hear her feet on the stairs. He'd left the door to the sitting room open, giving anyone in the hall a full view of Gladstone slumbering in the middle of the floor, the scarf wrapped around his paws. It was the perfect trap. He heard her hesitate for a moment. She took the bait and entered the room, intent on retrieving her stolen article. Holmes pushed the door shut and lit a lamp. She jumped, startled by the sudden illumination, and turned to face the detective as he looked her over.

"Ruth Anne Henley," he said, trying out the name. "Known to most of the American criminal world as Pinkerton Agent Travis Henley. It suits you somehow."

The girl looked absolutely livid over the fact that he knew her real name. She crossed her arms and looked away, refusing to meet Holmes's eyes.

"Just Ruth, please."

"I must say, this does explain why I never could find information on 'Anne Satterfield' in the Territory of Wyoming. I'm a little relieved, to be honest. I was afraid I was losing my touch."

"Satterfield was my mother's maiden name," Ruth whispered. Her expression suddenly hardened. "What did he tell you?"

"That you and Charles Henley are brother and sister. That the two of you lived on your family's ranch in the Wyoming Territory. That your uncle took care of you after your parents' deaths from scarlet fever in 1883. That he and your brother both work for the Pinkerton National Detective Agency and that you do, too. Unofficially, of course, and under an assumed name."

From across the room in his own chair, Watson watched Ruth as Holmes repeated what Henley had told them earlier. The girl was tense, with a look on her face like a cornered animal that wanted to run. She clearly did not want to be having this conversation, especially not with someone as cold and detached as Holmes.

"He ought to learn to keep his mouth shut," she grumbled. "What else'd he tell you? Did he tell you why I left in the first place?"

"He said that the two of you quarreled," Watson told her. "Something to do with a past case. He wasn't specific."

Ruth focused her gaze on the doctor now. She looked him over through narrow eyes, as if trying to decide whether or not he was telling the truth. She evidently decided that he was, for she finally turned and looked Holmes in the eye for the first time.

"What do you want from me?"

"Personally?" Holmes asked. "Absolutely nothing. I've no use for amateurs, particularly ones I've, in the past, suspected of being an accessory to a murderer. And I doubt Watson has any use for your either, unless it's to make you some kind of on-going case study or perhaps to dissect your brain for any abnormalities that might prove useful to the scientific community."

Ruth raised her eyebrows in disbelief at the comment, and glanced around the cluttered room. Holmes ignored the look.

"Your brother, however," he continued, "seems to think you might be a valuable asset to our investigation. He requested that I offer you a chance to come with us tomorrow."

As he spoke, Holmes watched Ruth's face. She looked thoroughly disgusted at the thought of Charlie Henley asking her to do anything.

"Of course, if you don't want to, that's completely understanda—"

"I'll do it," Ruth cut in. "I'll do it, but not for him. Goodnight, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson." She nodded to the two men, grabbed her scarf, and hurried from the room. Watson watched her leave. As soon as he heard her door close, he glared at Holmes.

"Why are you asking her to come along? You're going to corrupt that girl."

"Watson," Holmes smirked, lighting his pipe, "if an American girl is living alone and unescorted in London, I suspect she's already corrupted. I highly doubt I can do any more damage."

Watson sat there in silence for a while, watching Holmes puff away on his pipe.

"You knew the entire time, didn't you?"

"Beg pardon?"

A smile started forming on Watson's mouth.

"You've known from the beginning that she wasn't who she said she was, haven't you?"

Holmes's face had that familiar smug look about it.

"Yes, Watson, I knew the day she introduced herself to us that she wasn't being at all truthful with her identity. I would a pretty poor detective if I hadn't noticed immediately that she was lying."

"But how? Holmes, how could you possibly have known?"

"Simple. On the day we met her, I asked for her name. She hesitated very briefly before she provided us with 'Satterfield,' and she looked to the left just before she said it. As you may well know, looking to the left is a sign that the person is not being entirely honest. And, if you recall, she had no reservations in answering my other questions, suggesting that the only thing she was lying about was her name, and only her surname at that. She had no uncertainty with saying 'Anne' because that is her given middle name; therefore she was still being truthful."

"And that one discussion told you she was using a fake name?"

"No," Holmes corrected. "That one discussion made me suspect she was using a fake name. I know you may not believe it, but there _is_ a difference between suspicion and certainty. I had to do some additional digging to be completely sure. One of my American correspondents was kind enough to follow up on Opal Satterfield, the name from that godforsaken little hamlet in Arkansas, and found that she had the middle name of Anne, and that she had moved to the Wyoming Territory, where she married and had three children."

"Holmes, I fail to see the connection."

"That is because you fail to observe. For example, in the past two minutes alone, three different species moths have hit the window six times each in their pathetic attempts to reach the lamplight."

"Does that have to do with anything that has happened in the last half hour?"

"Most likely not. I highly doubt the moths have anything to do with Miss Henley's desire to travel incognito, although I could be wrong. Perhaps she's actually an aspiring entomologist on the run from a secret society which does not approve of women in the scientific fields..."

"Holmes. You're rambling."

"Right. As you know, ladies are rather sentimental creatures, and often give their daughters a middle name that somehow reflects upon themselves or their unmarried lives. Some use their maiden name. Others use their Christian name. And still others might use their own middle name. Thus, I was able to establish a connection between Opal Anne Henley _née_ Satterfield of Lander, Wyoming and Anne Satterfield of Baker Street, London. The final indicator was this."

Holmes pulled something out of his dressing-gown pocket and handed it to the doctor. Watson took the paper to examine it in the dim light. He recognized it immediately. It was the sketching Ruth had done of the Williamses in Hyde Park.

"I'm not seeing anything significant, Holmes."

The detective tapped the bottom right corner with the butt of his pipe.

"Notice something? Instead of signing her work, Miss Henley chose to incorporate her initials into the art itself."

It was true. Worked into the hem of Mrs. Williams' skirt were the initials R.A.H.

"From this," Holmes continued, "I deduced that A.H. most likely stood for Anne Henley, daughter of Opal Satterfield Henley. The first initial was more difficult, but easily understood once I found a reference to a Ruth Henley in Lander, Wyoming. From there, it was quite easy to connect the dots and tie the threads together. I must admit, however, the alias of Travis Henley the Pinkerton agent was a bit of a surprise. I wasn't expecting that."

"And you looked all this up simply because you were curious about her past?"

"Of course. I do background checks on all of my acquaintances. Including you," he added when Watson opened his mouth to question him. "You're from northern England, your middle name is Hamish, and you played rugby for Blackheath. Mrs. Martha Hudson, our dear landlady and part-time nanny, was married to the honorable Captain Roger Hudson of Her Majesty's Navy and spent many years abroad until his death, at which point she returned to London and began taking boarders and developed a liking for chamomile tea."

"I find that slightly disturbing," Watson began.

"I must agree with you on that. I've never cared for chamomile myself."

"No, Holmes, that you looked all that up. Do you honestly have nothing better to do?"

"At that time, no, I didn't. And, quite frankly, I had a legitimate reason. I needed an idea of what kind of people I would be rooming with. I didn't know you from Adam, and only had Stamford's word that you were of sound mind. As for Nanny, for all I knew, she could have been one of those genteel old ladies who've taken to poisoning lonely men as a charity act."

"Your mind must be a terribly frightening place."

Holmes gave snort of indignation and continued puffing on the pipe. He glanced toward the ceiling at the sudden sound of a guitar from upstairs. It was barely audible, but still well-played, even if it was merely a tuning exercise. Judging from the sound, it was clearly taken care of and valued by its owner. The detective gave himself a slight shake. What the devil was he thinking? He had more important things to muse over than an amateur musician's instrument.

Watson fished out his pocket watch and consulted it.

"It's nearly eleven o'clock, Holmes. I'm going to bed. If you plan on getting up at dawn to investigate that address, I suggest you do the same. Good night."

The doctor stood and left the room. As he made his way upstairs, the random strumming of the guitar slowly changed to some tune he did not recognize. It sounded like a slow march, or perhaps a church hymn. He halted at his door and glanced at the one at the end of the landing. Part of him felt sorry for the way Holmes had cornered the girl like that and forced her to listen as he recited her history to her. It must have been terribly embarrassing for her.

Watson hesitated, and then crossed the landing to her door and knocked. The playing stopped. He heard some shuffling noises and the creak of bedsprings before a key turned in the lock and the door opened. Anne— no, _Ruth_ looked out at him nervously. She'd let her hair down and he noticed with some amusement that, in addition to being a bit messy, it was also shorter than current ladies' hairstyles. It came no farther than her shoulder blades. In her left hand was her guitar, which she absentmindedly plucked at as she greeted her visitor.

"Yes?"

"I wanted to apologize for Holmes's behavior this evening. He shouldn't have trapped you and forced a confession out of you like that."

She waved his apology away with a faint smile.

"No, no, it's fine. 'Bout the only way to get me to admit to anything is to hem me up in a corner and threaten me at gunpoint."

As she spoke, Watson took the opportunity to furtively examine her room. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that she had cleaned it, somewhat. The papers that had been strewn around earlier were now stacked in three neat piles on the floor next to the desk. The curtains had also been folded and had found a new home on top of the wardrobe. The clutter on the desk was now organized, to an extent, and many of the notes and reminders were in the wastebasket instead of pinned to the wall. The sketching of Gladstone was complete and rested proudly on the windowsill. He turned his attention back to the girl.

"Are you comfortable with accompanying us tomorrow?"

"Well, I don't have anything better to do. Putting up with Charlie Henley for a day is better than hawking charcoal drawings in the park."

"You don't like your brother then?"

She shrugged.

"He's family; I have to like him. That doesn't mean I have to like his company."

"I'm afraid I don't understand. Isn't that the same thing?"

Ruth shook her head.

"Absolutely not. Let me put it this way. You and Mr. Holmes are friends, right? But that doesn't mean you want to spend every waking minute of the day with him, does it?"

"Heavens no! I don't think anybody could do that."

"Well, there you have it. Charlie is my brother and I'm required by familial law to like him, but that doesn't mean I want to be around him right now. Considering the circumstances, though, I'm willing to make an exception for a few hours."

Watson studied her as she spoke. Nothing she said seemed to be making sense. Holmes was right; this girl _was_ an enigma.

"Forgive me for sounding a bit dense, but if you don't want to be in your brother's company, then why did you agree to come along?"

Ruth sighed.

"Partially because I'm part of the reason he's here in London in the first place. And partially because I'm bored out of my skull and would like to do something I'm good at for a change." She gave him a wry grin. "Is the interrogation session over? Or do you have some more questions for me?"

"No. No, not at all. Good night, Miss Henley." He started to leave, but halted and turned back to her. "You don't have to lock your door, you know. Despite Holmes's profession, it's quite safe here."

"I know," she murmured. "Good night."

Ruth nudged her door shut and studied the key in her hand. It was a typical household key, nothing particularly special. She ran it between her forefinger and thumb meditatively before placing it on the edge of her desk and returned to the spot on the edge of her bed where she had been sitting earlier as she played. Her guitar was starting to sound a little off; she could use some new strings, but those would have to wait. The morning heralded more important and pressing matters. Even still, there was nothing she could do now, so she resumed playing "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" for a few minutes longer before finally putting the guitar away and laying down to let sleep claim her.


	7. Chapter 7

**So, yeah this took me forever to get finished. And, to be honest, I'm not too happy with the way it's turned out, but Chapter 7 must be posted since it logically leads to Chapter 8 which will (hopefully) be more interesting.**

**Disclaimer(s): Still don't own Doyle's lovely characters, just the OCs since they are my intellectual property, or so I'm told. And I can't take credit for Holmes's method of attempting to wake Watson at the beginning here. Protector of the Gray Fortress and KCS have both used it before me. I'm merely paying tribute. If you haven't read their work, put my pathetic scribblings to the side and go check them out.**

* * *

Chapter 7

Morning came soon enough. Perhaps a little too soon, in Watson's opinion. It was barely past seven o'clock when he felt himself being rudely shaken awake by a certain and, at this moment, rather annoying consulting detective.

"Watson."

"Hmph."

"Watson, Charles Henley is downstairs at this moment waiting on us…"

_Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away._

"… And I would hate to have to resort to drastic measures to force you to rouse yourself."

_Yes, just ignore him. He'll get bored and leave. _The doctor buried himself up in the sheets, hoping against hope that such thoughts were true. There were ten blissful seconds of silence. Then there was the dull scrape of a water pitcher being picked up.

Watson's hand shot out and grabbed Holmes by the wrist.

"Don't even think about it," he warned. "Give me five minutes."

With a triumphant smirk, Holmes left the room.

* * *

True to his word, Watson was downstairs soon afterward. Next to an infuriatingly smug-looking and fully-awake Holmes was Charlie Henley. The American had traded his well-kept suit for what Watson could surmise as working clothes. His brown trousers were dusty and permanently mud-stained at the ankles; the cuffs of his coat were adorned in a similar fashion. He had a waistcoat, but hadn't troubled himself with buttoning it. There was the tell-tale lump of where a revolver had been concealed in his left trouser pocket. The boy cleared his throat nervously.

"Sorry to wake you like this, doctor. I suppose I should've mentioned that we Henleys like to get up with the chickens. Speaking of which," he glanced uncertainly at the ceiling. "Did Ruth say she'd come?"

"Yes, she did," Holmes informed him. "It didn't take as much persuading as you initially thought yesterday evening."

"That's good. I guess. I can't help but wonder if she's only coming because she's hoping for a shot at killing me herself."

"She did have a rather murderous look in her eye when I told her that _you _were the one who suggested she come along."

"Holmes," Watson broke in belligerently, "if you're going to do nothing but stand here and gossip, then I am going back to bed."

"By all means, doctor, go right ahead. Miss out on the adventure. Just be sure to send Miss Henley down when you go up."

Watson glowered at him.

"In case you've forgotten, extortion is against the law."

"Yes, but Miss Henley still intends to accompany us."

"I'll get her," Charlie told them. He stepped out into the hall, put to fingers in his mouth, and gave a shrill whistle. "C'mon, Squirrel, we're leavin'!"

Holmes gave the boy a look.

"'Squirrel'?"

"It's a long story," he replied, motioning to the stairs. "Shall we? I have a cab waiting."

Holmes, being his typical presumptuous self, descended first, followed by Henley and Watson.

"Agent Morris is still at our rooms," the American explained, noticing Holmes's curious expression when he realized the foyer was empty. "I intended to meet with you and then collect him on our way to Whitechapel. Gives him plenty of time to get around. Joe can be kind of a bear in the mornings."

"I'll say."

The three men turned at the sound of the new voice. Ruth Henley had finally left her self-imposed solitary confinement on the third floor to join the investigators, and suddenly Watson wasn't so sure that was a good thing. This very abrupt character change of hers made him uneasy.

The person who stood at the foot of the stairs was very different from the one who had stood in the sitting room the previous night. Gone was the nervous, proper young lady. In her place was a sullen-looking girl in trousers and a shirt that were slightly too large. She had a light jacket on, but was lacking a waistcoat, and had apparently decided to forgo braces in favor of a belt which also carried her Bowie knife and its sheath. Her dark hair was pulled up in a quick, unladylike knot. She held her brown felt Stetson under her left arm. There was a toothpick sticking out of the right side of her mouth, and she was gnawing on it in a manner that reminded Watson of Holmes when his pipe was out of tobacco and he'd forgotten to refill it. She gave her brother a look that would've curdled milk.

"I hate that nickname and you know it."

"Nice to see you, too, sister dearest." Charlie's brow furrowed when he spotted her hat. "Isn't that my hatband?"

"No, it's mine. You stole it from me and I stole it back. Remember?"

"I shot the snake."

"And then left it for the buzzards. I skinned it and tanned the hide myself."

She brushed past him and started for the door, giving Watson a courteous nod as he held it open. Charlie followed her, deciding to try a different approach at conversation.

"It's… nice to see you're back, Ruth," he said tentatively.

"Go suck rattlesnake eggs," she snapped.

Realizing that further talk was pointless, Charlie stood back and allowed her to enter the cab first. Holmes and Watson followed. Charlie paused to provide the driver with an address before hopping in and pulling the door shut behind him.

Inside, the atmosphere was so tense, Holmes was fairly sure he could have taken Watson's blade and sliced through it. The open hostility between the siblings, at least on Ruth's part, was painfully evident and all of a sudden he found himself wondering if bringing the girl along was a good idea. If Charlie Henley suddenly fell over with a knife through his ribs, Ruth would be first on the suspect list. Perhaps they should have left her behind. Or, at the very least, taken the Bowie knife away from her.

Now that he had seen the two together, Watson could easily spot the similarities between the Henley siblings. They both had tanned skin that came from both excessive time in the sun and their Cherokee heritage, although Ruth had a more sallow tinge, suggesting that she had not been taking care of herself as well as she should. They had the same dull brown hair, although Charlie's had a red tint while Ruth's leaned more towards black. Their eyes were a similar gray color, but varied slightly in shade. Ruth's bordered on blue while her brother's favored green. In regards to physical type, while they both very thin and lanky, Charlie was more filled out and much taller than his sister. Really, Watson was surprised he had not noticed the resemblance between the two earlier. Then again, that was mostly Holmes's department. He'd had no reason to suspect or look for likenesses, so why should he have?

The cab pulled up some time later in front of a dismal-looking boarding house about forty-five minutes away from Baker Street. As they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Watson was struck by how run-down the place looked. These two might have been representatives of their federal government but it was clear they were not using their salaries for housing.

Charlie paid the driver and stepped away as the cab clattered down the street.

"You should've told him to wait," Ruth muttered.

"I think we'll be fine," Charlie replied, gesturing to the busy street. "Don't worry."

"I don't plan to."

Charlie turned away from his sister with an irritated snort. Holmes glanced up at the overcast sky which was threatening rain and then at Ruth, who seemed to be favoring her left leg. A look of understanding crept over Holmes's face. He had a feeling they were all going to regret the Henley boy not taking his sister's advice.

The inside of the Pinkertons' lodgings reminded Holmes of his early days on Montague Street, complete with a domineering battle axe of a landlady standing guard in a disused parlor. He absently wondered if his not-so-fondly-remembered previous proprietor had ever mentioned having a sister, for the woman who strode toward them now certainly seemed to share a family resemblance. Her dark eyes sparked as she glared at the unfortunate Charlie with fierce vengeance.

"Mr. Henley, who are these people?"

"They're acquaintances of mine, Mrs. Dodd, nothing more. They'll be gone soon." He turned to the group. "Erm… Why don't you wait here? I'll go fetch Mr. Morris and then we can be on our way."

"Sure," Ruth said acidly. "We don't have anything better to do and would love to hang around here under the harpy's scowl. Nice place, by the way. What's wrong? Uncle Sam not paying for travel expenses anymore?"

"They don't care how we catch him," Charlie informed her, "just so long as he's caught. Scotland Yard and the Marshals will take care of the rest. Quite frankly, I don't think he's generated enough interest for us to get federal funding yet."

"Eight murders and a cartload of missing bullion isn't enough interest?" Ruth asked with a snort of disbelief. "What's he have to do, rob the Treasury Department itself?"

Charlie mumbled something incoherent and trudged upstairs, leaving the trio under the gimlet eye of Mrs. Dodd, who had retreated to the parlor under the pretense of dusting a shelf, but was watching the newcomers with obvious suspicion. Ruth was tempted to say something vulgar just to shock the old buzzard when she caught Holmes looking at her reproachfully.

"What?" She asked innocently.

"Missing bullion?"

"He didn't tell you?"

"Obviously not. Do you care to elaborate?"

"More than happy to," she said cheerily. Then she caught sight of Mrs. Dodd surreptitiously watching the visitors behind a large and somewhat dead potted plant. "On second thought, it can wait. Charlie must've had some reason for keeping quiet about it."

Holmes was about to retort that as long as the Americans were going to continue withholding data, he saw no reason to continue assisting them with the case, but was interrupted by the arrival of Henley with Morris. The old man looked awake, but none too happy with being up and about. He brightened visibly at the sight of Ruth lingering sullenly near the door.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes, Doctor. It's nice to see you're coming with us this time…" He hesitated, giving the girl a pointed look. "Travis?"

She straightened and gave a curt nod.

"Yes, sir."

He smiled.

"I figured you wouldn't stay gone long. I got something for ya." Morris ran his hand down in his coat pocket and pulled something out. It was a metal badge, similar to the one he had shown Holmes on the day they'd met. He handed it to Ruth, who took it and ran her fingers over the insignia gingerly. She looked up at the old man with questioning eyes. "You're working in official capacities this time," he told her.

Without a word, Ruth slipped the badge into her shirt pocket. Charlie clapped her on the shoulder as he walked by.

"Just don't shoot anybody this time, all right, Roughshod?" He told her as he opened the door and stepped out into what could only be described as a deluge. The street was completely devoid of pedestrians and there wasn't a cab in sight. Charlie stood there in the downpour for a moment, glancing up at the sky as if wondering over whether or not God was playing a trick on him, then blew the rainwater from his nose with a huff and put his hat on.

Ruth hid her amusement as she brushed past him by turning her head to one side as she put her own hat on. She tucked her hair up inside the Stetson, spun around to face her dumbfounded and clearly annoyed brother, and flashed him a grin.

"Nice day, don't you think?"

In Ruth Henley's opinion, revenge was a dish best served wet.

* * *

The rain finally let up some time later, but by then the group was already halfway to their destination and saw no point in hailing a cab. No cabbie would probably want five soaking-wet passengers anyway, no matter how well they paid. As they walked, they broke into pairs with Morris in the lead, Ruth and Charlie behind him, and Holmes and Watson behind them. Deciding that the Henleys were occupied with their own conversation, Watson took the opportunity to question Holmes's motives further.

"What exactly are you playing at, Holmes?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"Why are you allowing Miss Henley along? You've never had any use for women before. You've never trusted them, yet here you are, allowing one to tag along on an investigation. Why the sudden change?"

"One, Miss Henley is _not_ a woman; she's a girl. Being a doctor, I'm sure you will agree that there is a difference. Two, I don't trust her and feel no inclination to do so at any time in the near future. Three, I have an impression that she is probably the most intelligent and observant of her companions, a quality that could prove useful."

As he spoke, Ruth sidestepped a drunkard who subsequently collided with Charlie. The man reeled, righted himself, and tottered off, leaving Charlie with a dazed expression and a bruised arm.

"You see, Watson?" Holmes asked. "Already she has proven to be more aware of her surroundings than her brother. An extra pair of eyes will be useful, especially since she actually knows how to use them."

Watson sighed, bowing to the inevitable.

"Just be careful with her, Holmes."

"Agreed. I've no intention of turning my back on her unless I'm certain she does not have access to that large and unladylike carving knife."

"That is _not_ what I meant."

"I know." Holmes narrowed his eyes, studying the Henleys engaged in furtive conversation. "Excuse me, Watson."

"What are you doing?"

"Taking advantage of a fortuitous opportunity. I'll be back."

He slunk off in the direction of the Henleys. Charlie and Ruth were leaning toward one another as they conversed, their heads down and voices low. The mark of a true eavesdropper was to know how to get just enough information to form a credible conclusion, and knowing how was an art. Too close, and the target would become suspicious; too far, and one missed the important bits of the conversation. Holmes had it down to a science, and kept himself at just the right distance. He was far enough to not attract attention, yet close enough to hear most of the discussion. Charlie's voice was too low to make out everything, and Ruth's whispering wasn't much better.

"…been worried about you… missed you."

"I know… figured you would."

"Why… run off?"

"… mad… I was scared… didn't know what..."

"…could've come to me…"

"… mad at you… didn't think Joe would understand…"

"… still mad?"

"Not as mad…"

"But… still…"

"Yes."

"…happened to Jim wasn't my fault."

"I know… doesn't change… still happened."

"… forgive me?"

"Not now…calm down first."

"Three months… enough time…"

"No, it's not," Ruth said in a suddenly-sharper tone. "You know that."

"Yes, I do. You're capable… holding a grudge for years… wish you'd forgive me now."

"I can't. Not yet."

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"I _know_ you are! Darn it, Charlie, why can't you just let me be mad for a while?"

Before her brother could reply, Ruth broke off walking with him and slowed her pace, a clear indication that she no longer wanted to speak to him, and allowed Holmes and Watson to pass her. Charlie gave her one final, regretful look before increasing his stride to catch up with Morris. Ruth kept her eyes fixed to the ground as she tucked a couple loose strands of hair back in her hat.

"A bit of bad blood between you and your brother?"

Caught off guard, Ruth jumped. Holmes had dropped back from walking with Watson and now stood a few feet to her left, matching her pace

"A disagreement," she explained, albeit grudgingly. "I've blamed him for something that was mostly my fault."

"If it is your fault, then why hold him responsible?"

"When something goes wrong, it's nice to have someone to blame it on besides yourself."

"That's a very cowardly way to think."

"It's a very _human _way to think," Ruth said coldly. "If you weren't so emotionless you'd know that."

"You think _I'm_ emotionless? Now there's irony for you."

Her gray eyes speared him.

"What exactly do you mean by that?"

"I mean that your personality is cold, callous, detached, and insensitive. For example, you have been in the company of your brother and a close family friend for several hours and you've yet to show any kind of affection for either of them. For another example, you are quite willing to blame your brother for something you did and claim no responsibility for."

"I never said I didn't hold myself responsible. Only that it makes me feel a bit better to know it wasn't entirely my fault."

"Yet you still blame your brother entirely," Holmes observed.

"Yes, I do, and if you think I'm going to forgive or apologize to him any time soon, you've got another think coming."

"I find your American colloquialisms rather boorish."

"Then why do you continue to talk to me?"

"Because every time you open your mouth, you tell me something about yourself. Every time you speak, you offer me another clue to unlocking and understanding your personality. It's a most engaging study in character."

"You seem to be rather adept at unlocking and understanding an individual's personality." Her tone had just the faintest hint of mockery.

"A simple matter of deductive reasoning. It's come in handy on more than one occasion."

"All right then. What can you tell about me?"

Inwardly, Holmes cringed. He'd been asked that very same question time and time again. There was a tiny little part of him, what was left of his human conscience, he supposed, that dreaded hearing it. It was the million-dollar question, and generally the reason why he had very few personal relationships. Most people didn't like to hear what Sherlock Holmes could tell about them. Many of them were, more often than not, offended by his deductions, but he went on ahead and did it anyway. He gave Ruth a quick glance, noting her gait, her body carriage, her choice of clothing, the way she styled her hair, blemishes on her face and hands; they all pointed to one thing:

"You're an uncultured but devout spitfire who has had very few female influences in her life."

"And how did you reach that conclusion?"

"Your unladylike behavior. You never seem comfortable in dresses. The hem of one of your skirts has been sewn up with horse hair, instead of a more conventional thread. You wear a thin silver chain around your neck with anchor, heart, and cross charms representing faith, hope, and charity. This tells me that you are either a practicing Christian or you at least have a good deal of respect for Christian virtue. At the moment, you are wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt that most likely belonged to your brother at one point. The boots, however, are too small to be something you pilfered from his wardrobe. They're obviously your own, and suggest that you actively partake in ranch work."

"Very true. Uncle Amos knows I'm better-suited to herding cattle than kitchen work."

"Which tells me that your uncle is unmarried. Since he is your surrogate father, his wife would have naturally become your surrogate mother. She would, most likely, never allow you to join in on such things, and she would have taught you the domestic skills you seem to lack. You've also never grown your hair all the way out since it was cut when you were ill with scarlet fever. It's just long enough for you to pull into a bun if the situation requires you to be at all feminine. If there were a female influence in your life, she would have never condoned such an unladylike fashion." Noticing the expression on the girl's face, Holmes wisely steered the analysis in another direction. "You're also prone to engaging in fist-fights with your brother."

"Only when he deserves it," Ruth mumbled.

"You have a scar on your right hand where you split your knuckle open after slugging him in the mouth," Holmes continued as if he hadn't heard her. "His lower lip has a scar from where his tooth broke the skin during said slugging. He also has a scar on his right hand from where he retaliated, resulting in the chipped maxillary lateral incisor on your left side."

Ruth subconsciously ran her tongue over the tooth in question, smiling at the memory.

"He chipped it off when we were supposed to be mucking stalls. I made him crawl all over the barn 'til he found it for me. I keep it in my pocket for luck."

"I know."

"How in the world do you know that?"

"Simple. Mr. Morris told me the story last night."

"That's cheating!"

"I am merely using the information provided to me. How is that cheating?"

"I don't know; it just is. Tell me something that Joe and Charlie didn't tell you."

"You've been injured in the past. Your left foot twists out just slightly, indicating that it has been broken, most likely at the ankle. Your limp is even slighter; you do a fine job of concealing it, by the way, but it is still there, and you wince sometimes when you stand up, which tells me that your back pains you on occasion. The way you carry your right shoulder suggests that it, too, was broken once. There is also a crescent-shaped scar going up into your hairline just above your left eye. A horse-riding accident, perhaps?"

"Guilty as charged," she murmured. "Our neighbor owned a mustang. One of the other ranchers' boys dared me to ride the crazy thing one day after church. The horse's name was Diablo. That should've been my first warning to steer clear, but I've never been one to back down from a dare, so I got on him anyway. He bucked me off and pounded me into the dust."

"And the result was that scar above your eye, among other various injuries, and damaged eyesight, which is why you now wear glasses."

Ruth stopped short. Holmes continued walking.

"I do _not_ wear glasses!"

"You keep them in your right pocket in a leather case," Holmes called over his shoulder. "You're simply too vain to admit it!"

Ruth let out something akin to a stunned squeak.

"What was that all about?" Watson asked as Holmes caught up with him.

"Oh, just a short lesson in humility."

Watson glanced behind and soon found himself trying very hard not to laugh at Ruth's dumbfounded expression.


	8. Chapter 8

**Didn't think I'd ever get this chapter done. School's starting to take over, so updates will most likely become more sporadic.**

**Disclaimer: Do I have to say it? I don't own anything. This is merely for entertainment porpoises. And purposes.**

* * *

Chapter 8

It was going on eleven o'clock when the group finally arrived at the address in Whitechapel. The rain had started up again, much to Ruth's chagrin. The only time she had use for precipitation was when it was soaking someone besides herself. The damp always made her joints hurt, especially when she was in a location that was considerably more wet than Wyoming. Now, unable to escape the ongoing shower, she turned her coat collar up against the weather and followed her companions down the street, looking not-unlike a cat that had just been doused with a bucket of cold water in the middle of the night. In short, she was miserable.

Sherlock Holmes's powers of deduction certainly had not been exaggerated, Ruth reflected as she ran her hand down in her trouser pocket. The battered leather case that contained her eyeglasses was still there, but now its presence was disconcerting rather than offering reassurance. She never wore her glasses in public, her pride wouldn't let her, and she seldom used them in private, as one rarely needed distance vision indoors. Although she kept them on her person at all times, she had never worn them anyplace in Baker Street with the exception her own room, so how could Holmes have possibly known she needed them? Furthermore, how had he deduced that the case was made of leather? The only time that case left her pocket was when she was sleeping. Unless he'd been rifling through her personal effects during the night, she knew for certain he'd never seen it. The whole affair was unsettling her.

"Here it is."

Ruth looked up sharply as she was jolted out of her musings when her brother spoke. He had stopped on the street corner in front of a residential area. At least, Ruth assumed, that was what it was supposed to be. The whole block might have been condemned for all she knew. Even the slums in Chicago weren't quite this bad. Catching sight of a group of rough-looking men loitering on the opposite corner, she subconsciously began moving closer to her own companions. She may have had little regard for personal safety, but she wasn't stupid, either.

Demonstrating that contempt for danger that his countrymen were so famous for, Charlie brazenly marched up to the front door and turned the knob. It didn't budge.

"It's locked." He sounded mildly confused.

"Oh, well that's obvious," Ruth sniped. "Do you have a key?"

_No,_ Holmes decided, _he doesn't, if that look is anything to go by._ The boy's face was a curious mix of embarrassment and irritation. Ruth stared her brother down.

"You are unbelievable. Are you completely incapable of thinking anything through?"

"Right," Holmes said, brushing the pair aside and thereby postponing the spat Ruth was clearly spoiling for. "I'll handle this." He took out his lock-pick kit and quickly went to work. Ruth stood back to watch him with obvious interest.

"You pick locks?"

"When the situation requires it."

"And how often is that?"

"Often enough."

"Ever got caught?"

The look on his face answered the question for her. Ruth wisely decided not to press the matter, and moved back to let Holmes to continue his work. There was a faint click, and then the door swung open, allowing the group to step in out of the rain.

The entryway was typical: dingy, poorly lit, an open doorway to a dusty sitting room on the right, a stairway to the second floor directly in front, and a narrow corridor between the two leading to another room in back. Holmes saw very little of interest except that the mud on the floor was from the St. John's Wood area where all three victims had died, and that the shape and weight distribution of the prints suggested they were dealing with a man who was small in stature, but still sturdy-built and had commendable upper-arm strength.

Ruth ducked inside behind the four men and gave herself a quick shake like a dog, sending water droplets flying in Charlie's direction. Her mouth formed into a self-satisfied smirk when he shot a glower at her, but her amusement quickly dissipated when she saw that the rain had stopped almost the moment she and her companions had walked through the door. With a sigh of disgust, she removed her hat and tucked it in the crook of her left arm.

A confused look suddenly came over Charlie's face when he ran his hands down in his coat pocket. He removed his left hand to look at something that had been in his pocket, and then gave his sister a scowl.

"Very funny, Ruth." His tone was dripping with exasperation and annoyance at his sibling's apparent immaturity. Ruth, on the other hand, stared back at him with confusion and innocence.

"What?"

He held the object up for her to see. It was an ace of spades playing card.

"Were you trying to be cute?" He asked. "Or do you just think I'm an idiot?"

"I didn't— I don't… What do you mean?"

"You put this in my pocket."

"I did not."

Charlie blinked.

"You didn't?"

"I swear, I didn't. You know me; I couldn't pick a pocket if my life depended on it."

Not completely satisfied with the answer, but apparently believing her, Charlie stuffed the card back in his pocket. In the awkward silence that followed, Ruth's eyes darted back and forth between Holmes and Morris, clearly expecting one of them to start giving orders.

"All right," she said, unable to stand it any longer. "How're we doing this?"

"I'll look around upstairs," Watson volunteered.

"I'll go with you," Morris offered. "Two pairs of eyes is better'n one."

"And Ruth and I can check the parlor," Charlie said.

Ruth's eyes widened.

"Whoa there, chum. Who said I was working with you?"

"I did," Charlie told her. When he saw her eyes narrow, he continued, "What?"

"I'm debating on whether or not I wanna kick your—"

"Ruth!" Morris gave a stern glare to accompany the rebuke. "That's enough."

Her disgusted huff was apparently some indication to the old man that she would behave, for he started up the stairs after Watson. Charlie left the foyer and entered the disused parlor. Holmes and Ruth quickly followed him.

Like the rest of the house, the parlor had seen better days. A broke-down sofa and a battered coffee table sat in front of an empty fireplace. The windows along the front of the building were coated with grime, letting in very little natural light. There was a bookshelf at the far end of the room and although it was full of books, they were covered with cobwebs and most of the titles were obscured. There was a distinct smell of mothballs and mice. Charlie crossed the room to inspect the fireplace. After a moment, he came back and clapped Ruth on the shoulder.

"All right, Squirrel, time to earn your keep."

"I'll have you know that I have been feeding myself quite well for the last three months without _your_ help, thank you very much," she said with a frown as she removed the offending hand. Evidently afraid of having a finger bitten off, Charlie tucked his hand back in his pocket and nodded to the fireplace.

"Just get up there and check it out. Can you do it?"

Ruth gave a resigned sigh, stepped into the grate, and bent over to peer up the chimney.

"Shouldn't be too difficult," she declared, flicking her chewed-down toothpick to the side like a cigarette. "What'm I lookin' for n' how far up'm I goin'?"

"Just look for anything that's not supposed to be found in a chimney. Go up as far as you feel comfortable."

Without another word, Ruth pulled off her coat. She tossed it on the floor along with her hat, leaped up, and began scrambling up the chimney. There were plenty of scuffling and scraping noises as she braced herself against the wall and pulled herself farther up. Occasionally some soot or other debris would fall and land in the grate. Presently there was a surprised squeak, followed by a muffled oath and a crunching noise. Charlie leaned over toward the grate.

"Find anything interesting?"

"Do unusually large spiders count? Honestly, I've seen sewer rats smaller'n these things."

"Spare me the lecture on local fauna, Ruthie."

A lump of masonry narrowly missed Charlie's head when it suddenly fell and landed in the grate.

"Call me that again and I'm knockin' a tooth out," she warned. "I've had enough of your nicknames."

The side of Charlie's mouth twitched, just the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. He seemed pleased with his sister's threat. He straightened up and nodded to the window, stating that he was going to look around while the weather was still good, and left the room. Ruth, meanwhile, could still be heard scuttling around in the chimney, grumbling about the lack of light and how she hoped Charlie rotted in "a very hot place for a very long time," or something similar to that effect, before growing quiet.

"How long do you intend to stay up there?" Holmes finally asked after several minutes of silence.

"As long as it takes," Ruth replied, her muffled voice echoing slightly. "There's not much up here, but it's nice and quiet. It'd be a nice place to think, really, if it wasn't so dirty and— Hey! Get off me, eight-legged vermin!— and crawling with spiders."

She fell silent again, except for a few scuffling sounds as she shifted around to begin her descent. Presently, she gave a yelp of surprise, and the scraping increased. A cloud of dust puffed out and large quantity of mortar landed in the grate, followed by Ruth herself. She emerged from the fireplace with a triumphant grin, holding a rusted tin container in her hands.

"Found something. It was wedged up in the masonry like a brick." She dusted it off and held it out to Holmes. "Where'd Charlie go?"

"Outside, I believe," Holmes said, taking the tin. "Are you saying Davis hid this in the chimney?"

Ruth shrugged.

"He could've. I'm not saying he did, and I'm not saying he didn't. I just know it's not something you're supposed to find in a chimney, Davis is a pretty skinny fella who would've made a crackin' good chimneysweep, and this was his last known location. Those facts plus the fact that nothing he does ever makes sense is pretty suggestive."

"It's dangerous to theorize before one has the proper data," Holmes intoned. He held the tin up, turning it over and around, inspecting each side. Most of the paint had peeled away, revealing bare metal spattered with patches of rust. However, part of the name could still be seen, and Holmes endeavored to read it aloud. "'Lazarus Mickleston's Memph …'"

"'Memphis Lemon Macaroons,'" Ruth completed. "Golly, what a mouthful."

"You're familiar the company?"

"Sure. Mr. McCoy used to sell them in his general store in Lander. Folks were fascinated by the fact that they'd supposedly last for years. I was more fascinated by the fact that even the hogs wouldn't eat them."

Deciding there was nothing else to be learned from the outside of the tin, Holmes pried the lid off. To his surprise, it was still full of Mr. Mickleston's famous, or infamous, depending on one's point of view, macaroons. Ruth picked one up and looked it over in amazement and revulsion. It looked like it had all the nutritional value of a hockey puck and was just about as appetizing.

"Dang, these things are old."

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Holmes asked dryly, looking over the obviously-stale cookies with a dubious eye.

"I remember that the company halted production in 1876. Planned to go out in a 'centennial blaze of glory' or something ridiculous like that."

She tossed the cookie back with the others, watching with curiosity as it landed with all the bounce of a lead weight. "Food should not do that," she declared, and walked over to where her hat and coat still lay. She dusted the coat off and slipped it back on before picking up her hat.

"I don't entirely lack domestic skills," she said abruptly.

"Oh?"

"My grandmother taught me to sew," she explained. "And I learned to cook."

"Willingly?"

"It was that or starve. I grew up with three bachelors whose expertise was, and still is, limited to beans, bacon, whisky, and lard. I learned to cook in self-defense."

Ruth took a step back as she put her hat on to get a better view of the dusty mirror. Seeing in her reflection that the brim was crooked, she reached up to adjust it. As she did, she caught sight of Holmes eyeing her sheathed Bowie knife with suspicion. She let her arms down and crossed them in front of her chest.

"Why don't you trust me?"

"You've yet to give me a reason to."

That, she supposed, was a fair answer. She'd lied about her identity, inadvertently made herself look like an accomplice to a murder, and had been openly hostile to just about everyone. Why _should _he trust her? Really and truly, it was a miracle he'd even let her come. That called to mind another worrying thought. Why _had _he let her come? If Holmes didn't trust her, then why was she even here? It couldn't be because Charlie and Joe wanted her along. What if Holmes still suspected her? What if she was here so he could keep an eye on her?

A wave of paranoia crept over Ruth, and she walked unsteadily to the window, taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. Panicking was the last thing she needed to do. It wouldn't fix anything, and it would only make her look like a fool in front of Holmes. She needed to get a handle on her blatant mistrust of people. Not everyone in London was out for her blood, and if she went around thinking such things were true, sooner or later she'd turn into a recluse. Eccentric was all right, reclusive was not. Holmes couldn't arrest her. He wasn't part of the actual police force. Besides, Joe and Charlie would never allow it. Well, Charlie might. That would explain why he'd left the room. Turning a blind eye, as it were, while Holmes—

_Stop it,_ Ruth told herself. _This is crazy. You sound like a raving lunatic._ She needed to clear her mind. She needed something to occupy her distressed brain with. Almost without thinking, she grabbed an old curtain rope and started fiddling with it. She ran her hands around it, forming random shapes and finding comfort in the soothing rhythm, and started pacing.

Across the room, Holmes was examining the tin of Lazarus Mickleston's Memphis Lemon Macaroons. He absently wondered what had possessed the man to give his product such a name, but quickly pushed the thought away. At the moment, it was unimportant. He glanced over at Ruth. She'd stopped in front of the bookshelf, looking over the titles with faint interest and not paying a bit of attention to what she was doing with her hands. They seemed to have a mind of their own, subconsciously twisting and turning the rope she'd picked up, shaping it into something. What was it, a noose? No, it was a lasso. She was forming a lasso and not even noticing it.

After reaching the conclusion that Ruth was oblivious to the world, Holmes returned his attention to the lemon cookies. When she'd tossed the cookie back in, he had noticed a sound not unlike a dull clink. Unless Lazarus Mickleston had been in the habit of baking lead in his cookies, they should not clink. Holmes ran his hand down underneath the cookies experimentally, and fished out a small object. It was a ring. He brushed the crumbs off and held it up to the light. The ring bore the insignia of a square and compasses. It was a Freemason's ring. Interesting. Why hide a Freemason's ring in a tin of decades-old lemon cookies from Memphis, and then hide the tin in a London chimney?

Ruth, meanwhile, was still studying the titles on the shelf, her hands working overtime as she pulled the lariat taut with her left hand, loosened it with the right, and repeated the cycle completely unaware. She suddenly spun around to face the door. Surprised by the movement, Holmes looked up sharply just in time to see her face pale at a sound coming from outside.

It was Charlie. He was screaming.

Ruth threw the rope aside and bolted from the room.

Holmes sighed, set the tin down, and went after her. This was _exactly_ why he never allowed himself to become involved in a case on an emotional level.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: Still don't own anything. Do I really need to say it?**

* * *

Chapter 9

Holmes paused at the foot of the stairs to call for Watson before dashing outside. He reached the street just in time to witness what could only be described as a horrific accident. Somehow, Charlie Henley's right leg had got caught either in or around the wheel of a cab and was being dragged along the street at breakneck speed. The cabman was driving like a man possessed, taking the corner at an insane pace. Charlie came loose, by some miracle, and he was flung up onto the curb, only for the already-injured leg to be slammed into a lamppost with a sickening crunch. Even from the distance he was, Holmes heard the bone splinter. He saw Ruth stop dead, clearly contemplating running to her brother's aid or fainting from shock. The former apparently won out. She practically threw herself in Charlie's direction, but only made it a few yards before she stumbled and fell. She scrambled the remaining feet on her knees and desperately tried to pull her barely-conscious brother away from the curb.

"Don't," Holmes ordered, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Let Watson look at him first."

Ruth complied and scuttled back, gazing off in the direction the cab had taken. By this time, Watson had arrived. He knelt beside the boy and rolled up his bloodied trouser leg for proper examination, giving a faint whistle as he looked it over.

"What is it?" Ruth asked.

"The bone's been shattered," Watson pronounced. "He needs to be taken to a hospital as soon as possible. Mr. Morris, can you try to land us a cab? Holmes, I'll need you to help me keep his leg steady when we move him."

While the men moved to follow the doctor's orders, Ruth stepped back some more to get out of the way. She stared again at the corner the cab had disappeared around, as if that could somehow make it materialize in front of them. Unable to bear the agonized exclamations of her brother, Ruth closed her eyes and tried to block out the sound as he was loaded into the cab. Her hand strayed down to the Bowie knife, looking for something to fiddle with. She gave an inadvertent jump when Holmes laid his hand on her shoulder.

"Watson's taking him to a hospital," he said.

Ruth turned to look at the vacant street. It was just the two of them.

"Joe's going with them?"

"Yes. You didn't happen to get the cab number, did you?"

"No," she muttered dejectedly. "The last three digits were nine-fourteen. I couldn't see the rest."

"Pity. We could have used it. As it is, that's not much to go on." He caught sight of her gripping the Bowie handle. "Imagining various methods of murder against the cabman won't fix anything," he told her. "Back to Baker Street, then. We can wait for news there."

* * *

Ruth did not say another word the entire trip back. She sat in the cab in a stony silence, her gray-blue eyes clouded with some mental preoccupation, and hardly seemed to notice when Holmes tapped her on the arm and told her they were at Baker Street. The girl immediately went inside and commandeered one of the armchairs in the sitting room where she'd have a good view of the window and the street. That had been at one o'clock that afternoon.

And now, at eight o'clock that night, she still had not moved. She sat with her stockinged feet tucked up underneath her, her boots lying forgotten on the floor. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, pulling them as close to her chest as she possibly could. She didn't rest her head on her knees, instead choosing to lean it against the back of the chair which enabled her to stare forlornly at the top right corner of the windowpane. Holmes was fairly certain she'd been in the exact same position for the last seven hours.

Mrs. Hudson had come earlier that afternoon with a tea tray. It sat on the coffee table untouched, exactly how she'd left it. Holmes had vacated the sitting room occasionally, only to find the girl in the same position each time he returned. She didn't even seem to notice when Edgar crawled up in her lap. When it became apparent that he wasn't going to get any attention, the cat had jumped down and was now lurking underneath the chair, daring Holmes to get near her. For his part, the detective was more than happy to sit across the room and away from the vile animal while he mulled over the day.

There was little doubt in his mind that what had happened to Charles Henley was not an accident. It was all too much of a coincidence. It was unfortunate that Ruth had been unable to see the entire cab number. Perhaps this would give her an incentive to relinquish her pride and start wearing glasses in public. Henley's assailant would get away. For now, at least. Holmes would not be surprised in the least if Ruth left the next morning to hunt the cabman down with a vengeance.

What did surprise him, just slightly, was the girl's sudden, unyielding loyalty to her brother. All day, she'd acted as if she couldn't care less about what happened to him, yet here she was in Holmes and Watson's sitting room, pining away for news of him like a dog at its master's grave. Well, blood was thicker than water, as they say. Now that he'd had a chance to work it out, Holmes figured that was it. It had taken Henley nearly getting his leg ripped off to make Ruth realize she still loved her brother. That explained her behavior. She was regretting not apologizing to him when she'd had the chance. If he didn't make it, she would probably be in Bedlam before the week was out.

What inspired that kind of loyalty? It couldn't be familial ties alone. He and Mycroft were brothers and they barely spoke to one another. On the surface, Charlie and Ruth had appeared to have the same kind of relationship, but it was clear now that was not the case. If it wasn't shared blood, perhaps it was shared experiences. The pair had assisted in Pinkerton cases for years; there was no telling what they had witnessed together. The adventures they'd both endured could have forged such an inseparable bond, much like the one he and Watson shared.

Now there was an interesting analogy. Holmes hadn't given it much thought before, but the relationship he had with Watson was very similar to the Henley siblings. They bantered and argued with each other, but if push came to shove, either one would willingly lay down their life for the other. And the survivor would spend the rest of their life wondering why it couldn't have been them instead.

Circumstances certainly had changed since that day Holmes had mentioned to Stamford he needed someone to split the rent with. Just a few years ago he'd been alone, solving cases and delving into danger headfirst and on his own. Now he had a companion, someone who shared his enthusiasm for macabre excitement and never failed to show up with a much-needed revolver in the nick of time. They were more than just partners, they were friends. No, they were brothers. Certainly more so than he and Mycroft had ever been. Holmes blinked, snapping himself out of his reverie. Really, he was becoming most sentimental. He took a glance at the clock above the mantle. It was nearly nine. Watson should have been back by now.

As if on cue, Holmes heard the front door open and the sound of uneven steps on the stairs as the doctor came up. As he removed his hat and coat, Holmes caught a glimpse of his friend's face. He looked tired, terribly tired. He hung the hat and coat up as he entered the sitting room. For the first time in almost eight hours, Ruth moved. She swallowed nervously and turned to look at Watson with wide, questioning eyes.

"Charlie?"

"He's fine. He lost a good deal of blood, but he'll live."

"His leg?"

"It had to be removed. They took it off at the knee."

Ruth rested her head against the chair again and closed her eyes. After what seemed like a lifetime, she opened them. That distant, clouded look had returned.

"Will they let me see him?"

"Not tonight. It's too late." He noticed her suspicious look. "I'm not trying to put you off, Miss Henley. Your brother is only just out of surgery. The hospital staff aren't going to let anyone visit with him until tomorrow morning when he's more stable."

"'More stable'?" Ruth's voice cracked. She started to bristle up like a fighting cock. Or perhaps a certain irate cat. "What the heck does that mean?"

Holmes took the opportunity to hand her a cup of the long-cold tea.

"Calm down," he ordered. "You'll only give yourself a stroke."

Ruth clutched the cup so tightly her knuckles began to lose their color. She sipped it pensively, pulling a wry face at the cold liquid.

"I only meant that he's weak from the amount of blood he lost," Watson explained, "and recovering from loosing part of a limb. He'll be asleep and in no condition to receive visitors."

Ruth took another sip of the tea, wrinkling her nose slightly at the bitter taste.

"You're sure they'll let me see him tomorrow?"

"They will. I'll go with you to stem any arguments." He looked her over with a similar look he used when assessing Holmes's condition after a brawl. She barely seemed awake. "I suggest you get some rest. You look tired."

"Just a little," she murmured, but she set the cup back on the tray nonetheless. She stood and reached under the armchair to grab Edgar. Apparently offended that he had not been given attention earlier, the cat slunk off across the room. Ruth straightened up and left.

"Fine," she muttered. "I didn't want your company anyway."

Watson watched her trudge upstairs, his natural tendency to concern himself over another person's well-being aroused.

"She's not going to rest at all. She'll spend the whole night fretting about him."

"I shouldn't bet on that if I were you, Watson."

"And why is that?"

"I drugged the tea when Nanny wasn't looking. Not very much," he added hurriedly when he saw the doctor's reproachful glare. "Just enough to make her tired. Her own exhaustion will do the rest."

Watson sighed and sat down.

"I shouldn't approve of your methods at all. Sleeping draughts are never the best way to rest after a stressful event, especially not the ones you concoct. But given the circumstances and her current state of mind, I suppose it was the best course of action."

Holmes poured Ruth's half-drank cup back into the teapot, glancing over at Watson as he did. He looked more tired now than Holmes had seen him in a long time.

"Was it very bad?"

"It was one of the worst wounds I've seen in quite a while," he admitted. "The cab wheel tore a good deal of the flesh away and the impact completely shattered the bone. Even if there had been some way to save his leg, he never would have regained full use of it."

"And what of Morris?"

"He left to send a wire to the uncle in the States and never came back. I expect he went back to their rooms."

"I can't imagine why. If I'd had a landlady like theirs, I would have found new lodgings weeks ago." He paused, considering his words. "Actually, I did."

"Well," Watson said, standing up, "I'm going to bed before it gets much later, Holmes. You're more than welcome to sit here and reminisce about previous landladies you've terrorized if you want, but I'd recommend getting some sleep while you still can. Good night."

Long after Watson had left, Holmes sat by the empty fireplace for quite a while. Sleep was an annoying distraction to the mind when trying to contemplate a difficult problem, but eventually he had to yield to his friend's suggestion and dozed off in the armchair.

* * *

He was waiting for her that night. Waiting for his chance to spring, to take care of a potential threat. He'd already done away with one threat that afternoon. But there were more, and he'd deal with each of them, one by one. Right now, it was the girl's turn. He didn't have long to wait. He could hear her coming. She would come straight to him like an insect flying into the spider's web.

It was a pity he could not watch her die. He dearly wanted to, but to linger in the room would increase his chances of being caught. He could not let that happen. Capture meant disaster. He would simply have to be satisfied with knowing that she would not live. But, oh how he wanted to stand over her, watching her as she writhed in agony, her breath coming in shallow gasps until they finally halted altogether. How satisfying that would be, how tempting it was. No. The risk was too great. _She will not live,_ he reassured himself. _She will not live._ The doorknob turned. He patted the sack next to him. _Not long now…_

* * *

Ruth stumbled into her room, barely awake, and pushed the door shut with her foot, not even bothering to turn around. She wasn't "just a little" tired like she'd told Holmes and Watson. She was absolutely exhausted, but she stubbornly refused to admit it, even to herself. A few hours sleep was all she needed and she'd be fine by morning.

_I'll go with Dr. Watson to look in on Charlie,_ she told herself, going over to her desk. She'd rib him a little for getting his leg messed up. She'd apologize to him, let him know that she wasn't carrying a grudge, and then she'd go with Joe and do whatever he needed her to do.

She ran her hands across the messy desk, searching for her box of matches to light the lamp. What had she done with it? She was positive the box had been sitting on the desk that morning. Had it only been that morning? It seemed like years since she'd put on her working clothes and followed her companions to Whitechapel. Perhaps she'd moved it and forgotten. But she hadn't been in her room since she'd left earlier. And even then, why would she move it?

She froze. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She could sense something. Something else was in the room with her. Was it Edgar? No, it couldn't be Edgar. He was downstairs looking for a chance to maul Holmes. She bent down slowly, reaching for the bottom drawer where she kept the LeMat.

Before Ruth could slide the drawer open, a hand clamped itself around her mouth and nose. She struggled and kicked at her attacker, trying to pull herself away from the sickly-sweet smell. His grip was too strong. He pulled her closer. She faintly heard him whisper something in her ear. Then, there was nothing.

* * *

Early morning sunlight filtered through the window. Ruth drowsily opened one eye, dimly aware of the fact that Edgar was lying on her stomach. At the moment, however, she was more concerned with her physical condition. Her mouth was dry and her head ached like the time Charlie had cracked her on the forehead with an old porch railing. She rolled her head to one side, vaguely wondering what she'd done the night before. Quite frankly, she couldn't remember.

As she came more awake, Ruth became aware that there was something odd about the way she was laying. She was on her back. She never slept on her back. And she was still in her clothes from yesterday. Surely she hadn't been so tired she'd just collapsed on the bed without bothering to change clothes. That wasn't at all like her.

_Maybe Holmes slipped something into that tea last night, _she mused. That wouldn't surprise her. Maybe he'd got a hold of Joe's moonshine and slipped that in. That stuff he made was enough to knock anybody for a loop. Still half asleep, she reached up to pet her cat.

Ruth's eyes suddenly flew open as her fingers came in contact with the object on top of her. That wasn't Edgar. It was something else. She rolled her head back to the middle of her pillow and looked down in horror.

Lying on her stomach just below the ribcage, its eyes glazed over in slumber, was a rattlesnake.

* * *

**Yes, I know. I'm evil. Feel free to throw things at me.**


	10. Chapter 10

**"Asps. Very dangerous. You go first."**

**Let that quote set the tone for this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes, Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Gladstone, 221 Baker Street (prime piece of real estate, I'm sure), any other part of London, rattlesnakes, asps, or Sallah.**

* * *

Chapter 10

Holmes was not exactly having a good morning. For starters, Watson had purposefully left the curtains open, allowing an unholy amount of light to fill the room and thereby waking the disgruntled detective a few hours earlier that what he was accustomed to.

To further complicate matters, he'd woke to discover that Edgar had decided to use his favorite hat as a kitty bed. He'd already tried three times to move the cat, receiving a good clawing for each attempt, and now found that he was running out of options. Siccing Gladstone on him wouldn't work. The bulldog was scared to death of Edgar. He could have asked Watson to move him, but the doctor was making a house call at the moment. Mrs. Hudson was out of the question. She absolutely refused to go anywhere near the animal, claiming it was possessed. That left Holmes with one option. He would have to ask Ruth and the idea was not setting with him very well.

It wasn't that he didn't like Ruth. Quite the contrary, actually; she was a rather interesting individual. It was the idea of asking a seventeen-year-old girl to come move a cat so he didn't lose a hand that he didn't like. A grown man should not need this kind of assistance. The only comfort he could find in the situation was the possibility that Edgar was not an ordinary cat. Like Mrs. Hudson, Holmes was sure the feline was the spawn of Satan. Or, at the very least, under his control.

The other trepidation Holmes had was his uncertainty about Ruth's emotional state. She'd spent most of the previous afternoon convinced that her only sibling was dead and had blamed herself entirely for the incident. After learning that her brother would be crippled for life, the girl had stoically retreated to her room. If she were the sort of person who only let go of emotion in private, there was a good chance she'd be a complete wreck this morning. And if she was, Homes did _not_ want to deal with her.

He now stood outside her door, listening. He heard no movement inside, but he knew she hadn't left. He would have heard her if she had. Perhaps she was still asleep. He rapped sharply on the door.

"Come in." Ruth's voice was no more than a hoarse whisper. _"Please."_

"In order to do so, the door needs to be unlocked."

"I think it is."

"You think? Miss Henley, can you not remember if you locked your own door?"

"Mr. Holmes, please, _just get in here!_"

The intensity of her voice alerted Holmes that something was wrong. He pushed the door open and stepped inside to find Ruth lying on her bed stiff as a board. She was still in her clothes from yesterday, and her hands were gripping the edge of her bed so hard her knuckles had turned white. She scarcely moved as she turned her head to face him with wide eyes and an expression of pure terror.

"Get this thing off me!"

Holmes' eyes strayed down to her midriff where a rattlesnake lay.

"Good grief, Henley, where did that come from?"

"I don't know; just get it off!"

"How do you propose I do that?"

Ruth's eyes shifted to look at the snake.

"Ordinarily, I'd say shoot it, but that's not something I recommend, given its present position."

Holmes took his gaze off the reptile to look at Ruth. Her face was about the same color as the bed sheets, her eyes were wide and glassy, and her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps. She was just a step away from hyperventilating.

"Don't panic," he told her. "I'll be right back."

"Oh, I'm beyond panicking," she muttered as he left the room. "I was panicking when I found it there an hour ago. Right now I'm somewhere between losing my lunch and a near-death experience. And there's nobody in here listening to me. I sound like a raving lunatic. Lovely."

She concentrated on regulating her breathing and trying not to disturb the snake until Holmes returned. He soon did, brandishing a pair of fire tongs.

"This should work. I don't think it's entirely awake yet."

Ruth paled even more, if such a feat was even possible, as her eyes darted nervously between the tongs and the snake.

"I hope you've got an antivenin somewhere in that mess of yours downstairs."

"If we don't, I'm sure Watson could easily obtain one. Don't move."

"Heh. Right."

Her voice quavered with a high, nervous laugh. Holmes recognized the tone. He'd heard it in others before. She was barely holding herself together, and was coming closer and closer to an all-out panic attack as he crept forward with the tongs. The snake seemed more alert now, obviously disturbed by the motion in the room. It flicked its tongue out, watching the man with the tongs for any kind potential of threat. Ruth's stomach began twisting itself in knots and her blood ran cold as the reptile let out a warning rattle.

Holmes took another cautious step toward the bed. The snake rose up, preparing to strike at this bothersome creature who had interrupted its nap and now had the gall to come closer. Holmes sprang forward and clamped the tongs down on the snake, just below the head. The snake writhed and wriggled in a vain effort to free itself as Holmes lifted it into the air.

Ruth launched herself off the bed, hit the floor, and scrambled over to her desk. She yanked the bottom drawer open and frantically fumbled around for her revolver.

Holding the snake out at arm's length, Holmes turned around to see Ruth aiming the LeMat, seemingly, at him. His eyes widened.

"What are you doing?"

"Keep still," she ordered.

"Absolutely not. Put that thing down. You'll shoot something."

"That's the idea."

Holmes took a step sideways as he tried to reason with her. The gun followed.

"Please put it down. You're distressed. You're not thinking clearly."

"Quit moving. I know what I'm doing."

"No, you don't. Will you please be sensible about—"

_BANG!_

Holmes flinched. He couldn't help it. Anybody in their right mind would flinch when a gun that was aimed at them went off. However, he didn't seem to be feeling any pain. Perhaps, with her poor eyesight, she'd missed, although how anybody could miss at that distance was a mystery to him. He opened his eyes to look at the snake. What was left of it, anyway.

The head had been shot clean off, and was now sitting in the middle of Ruth's bed, twitching. The tongs were still clamped around the body, which was twisting around in its death throes. Out of the corner of his eye, Holmes could see a smoldering bullet hole in the wall just above the bed. Mrs. Hudson was going to murder them both when she found it.

"Holmes," Watson's voice drifted up the stairwell as he made his way to the third floor, "please tell me that wasn't a gunshot. And will you please explain why Mrs. Hudson met me at the door in near-hysterics saying you're running around the house with a pair of fire tongs like a madman? If you've done something to Gladstone, I'll—"

The doctor stopped short when he entered the room. He looked from Ruth and the still-smoking revolver, to Holmes and the tongs, to the twitching snake and its head.

"What the devil is going on up here?"

"Miss Henley here was demonstrating to me how they deal with unwanted pests in Wyoming."

"That's a rattlesnake!"

"Very good, doctor. You know your reptiles."

"What's it doing here?"

Holmes looked at Ruth, clearly expecting her to enlighten them. She stared back at him defensively.

"I don't know where it came from! It was on me when I woke up."

"The snake was probably placed without you noticing it," Holmes informed her, privately regretting he'd drugged the tea the previous night. "You must be a sound sleeper."

Ruth shook her head.

"No, I'm not, actually. The slightest little noise sometimes…" She trailed off, her eyes widening with realization. She ran her tongue over her lips, noticing the strange aftertaste in her mouth for the first time. "Chloroform," she muttered. "Somebody chloroformed me last night."

"Then the snake was definitely placed," Holmes concluded. At least the blame for her not noticing wasn't squarely on him now. "Most likely by the same person who left that in your hand."

"Left what in my hand?"

"This." Holmes nudged something on the floor with his foot. "You dropped it when you rolled off the bed during your moment of temporary insanity."

"Why didn't you say something about it earlier?"

"I was more concerned with the fact that you were aiming a revolver at my head."

"I was aiming it at the snake's head, not yours," Ruth retorted. Regardless, she set the LeMat back on her desk before picking up the object to examine it. It was an ace of spades playing card.

"Well," Holmes said in a tone that clearly indicated he'd known all along what the object was, "now we know who sent you the snake."

"What are you going to do with it?" Watson inquired.

Holmes studied the headless snake, pondering the question.

"Throw it in the rubbish bin, I suppose. Or perhaps I'll dissect it later."

"Can I put it in the icebox?"

Holmes and Watson both looked over at Ruth with curious expressions. The girl shrugged.

"I owe Charlie a hatband," she explained, nodding to her own hat.

Watson sighed. This, for sure, was going down in the annals as one of his weirder mornings. Holmes handed Ruth the tongs.

"I'd wrap it up in butcher paper if I were you," he warned. "Mrs. Hudson won't be able to see it that way. When you've finished, would you be so kind as to join me in the sitting room? There's an issue with your cat I'd like to clear up."

* * *

Edgar was not the least bit happy with having his nap disturbed. The cat gave a disgusted growl when Ruth scooped him up from Holmes' hat and deposited him in the floor. After watching her pet stalk off to skulk in a corner, she collapsed into an armchair near the fireplace. Watson took the one across from her, while Holmes occupied himself with lighting his pipe by the window.

"It was an eastern diamondback," she said before the detective could even open his mouth. _"Crotalus adamenteus. _About four-and-a-quarter foot long. Six years old. Highly venomous."

"You're sure?"

Ruth gave him a condescending glance.

"Trust me. I got a very good look."

"I believe you. I daresay you are more an authority on American reptiles than I."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were mocking me."

"That is a moot point. The fact of the matter is that Davis tried to kill you."

Ruth shuddered.

"He certainly could've picked a better way to do it," she said, absentmindedly rubbing a spot on her right arm just below the elbow. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off and shock was setting in, she felt positively ill. "Snakebite's a slow and painful way to go."

"I think that was his intent," Holmes pointed out.

"Is there any way the animal could be traced?" Watson asked. "American rattlesnakes aren't exactly commonplace in London."

"I doubt it," Ruth told him. "It was probably one of his own 'pets.' Davis isn't dumb enough to use a snake from someone's private collection or steal one from a zoo. He's reckless, not stupid. He wouldn't use a snake that would arouse suspicion."

"An American snake in England?" Holmes laughed mirthlessly. "Yes, that's very unsuspicious."

Ruth glared at him.

"You know what I mean."

"Precisely. Which is why I believe we shall leave the snake lead unfollowed and consider our next course of action."

"_I_ am going to check on my brother. _You_ can do whatever you want."

"Do you plan to tell him how you acquired his new hatband?"

Ruth shivered and rubbed her arm again.

"No. He'll just worry over it. There's no point in getting him agitated when he can't do anything about it."

Holmes did not seem to care to hear the answer. He turned his attention to Watson, detailing him with instructions he wanted carried out for some reason or other. As he spoke, Ruth inadvertently let her mind wander. She could feel the snake's dusky skin as it slithered up her leg and crawled across her chest, sinking its venomous fangs into her arm or neck…

"Are you all right?"

Watson's voice cut in on the loathsome hallucination. Ruth straightened up with a start, suddenly aware that she hadn't been breathing.

"Yes," she said, not too convincingly, "I'm fine."

"In that case, you might want to change into something more respectable," he told her. "I doubt the hospital staff will let you in looking like that."

The doctor's tone had been light-hearted and jesting, but Ruth did not seem to notice. She stumbled from the room and hurried upstairs, returning a few minutes later in the navy-blue dress that Holmes had noted being repaired with horsehair. Watson grabbed his coat and hat, and the pair left.

After they were gone, Holmes took out a file labeled "Henley, Ruth," and added a singled word to the hand-written notes inside:

Ophidiophobic.

* * *

In a complete reversal of the previous day, there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The bright sunshine made everything seem annoyingly cheerful. It was what a hopeless romantic would most certainly dub, "a perfectly wonderful day." In Ruth's mind, "sickeningly ironic" sounded more appropriate. She tried to pay attention to her surroundings as she travelled with Watson to the hospital which she hadn't even bothered to get the name of, but eventually gave up. London streets all looked the same to her.

The cab they were in finally clattered to a stop in front of a large, imposing-looking building of gray stone. Ruth hopped out and lingered at the curb with some uncertainty. Watson passed her, but stopped when he noticed her sudden hesitation.

"What is it?"

"Eh, nothing," she muttered. "I've just never cared much for hospitals and doctors, that's all. I don't mean you," she stammered, hurrying to correct herself when she saw his amused expression. "You're all right. It's just… doctors in general, I guess."

"That's fine," he told her amiably. "Holmes doesn't care for doctors, either. He detests them, actually. Heaven only knows why he's tolerated me all these years."

"You don't act like a doctor." Ruth tipped her head to one side as she pondered the statement. "Or maybe it's because you act more like a doctor is supposed to."

"How do you mean?"

"You're not brusque or harsh. You're personable and unfailingly polite, but still professional. The nurses at the hospital in Cheyenne ought to take a leaf out of your book."

"Not very pleasant ladies, I take it?" He inquired, holding the door for her.

"Angels of mercy they are not. Half of 'em couldn't even take a decent joke."

To her surprise, Watson laughed.

"Yes," he agreed. "Some nurses are like that. Particularly when faced with an uncooperative patient."

"I wasn't a patient," she admitted. "Just uncooperative. Which way?"

"Upstairs, unless they've moved him. Follow me."

Ruth complied, absently wondering if all the hospitals in the world had been designed by the same person. They certainly looked like they had. With the exception of accents, this hospital's interior and its people lingering in the halls looked, sounded, and smelled similar to the one in Cheyenne. It wasn't bringing back good memories. She decided to force her mind in another direction.

"So, I guess you've had some unpleasant encounters with nurses yourself?"

"Yes, you could say that. I remember one nurse in particular from my days in medical school who was constantly finding fault with us 'young, worthless, lazy no-accounts.' She would have made a fantastic drill sergeant. Eventually, some friends and I got so fed up with her that we concocted a substance to put in her food which turned her tongue green for three days."

Ruth gave an unladylike snort of laughter.

"You didn't."

"I did."

"That's awful!"

"I know. Had we been caught, we surely would have been thrown out. All right, your turn. What were you doing in a hospital terrorizing nurses if you weren't a patient?"

Ruth's face suddenly turned an interesting shade of pink.

"Well, I suppose, technically, you could say I was a patient. I was supposed to be, anyway. A small incident at the local telegraph office left Charlie with a broken wrist and me with a very minor concussion. The nurses wanted to keep me contained for observation and refused to tell me anything about Charlie's condition. This didn't sit too well with me, so I created a little diversion and used the ensuing chaos to sneak off and find him. I was with him long enough to be reassured he was fine before the nurses finally caught up with me. They hauled me back to my room and locked me in, so I broke the lock on the window, crawled down the drainpipe, and went back to our hotel. Joe was absolutely livid."

"I'd imagine so."

"If it hadn't been for the fact that I was apparently hurt, I think he would've strangled me."

"'Apparently hurt'? You had a concussion."

"A _mild _concussion," she corrected. "It was a mild concussion. I could still walk. The nurses were just trying to make it worse than it was."

"Nevertheless, you shouldn't have been walking around with a head injury." Watson stopped by a partially-open door at the end of the hall. "This is it."

Ruth followed him inside, still showing some uncertainty at the odd smells that were so commonplace in medical establishments. The room itself was typically sterile and Spartan. Charlie had appeared to be sleeping, but quickly came around when he heard the door open. Watson pointedly lingered at the far end of the room to give the siblings a bit of privacy, a bit difficult in such a small space. Ruth came over and hovered by her brother's bed.

"Well, you certainly made a mess of yourself this time, Charlie Henley."

Pale as he was, Henley's cheeks flushed as he chuckled.

"What're you talking about? Just a scratch."

"I can see that." Ruth's resolve finally crumbled. "Oh, Charlie, I'm sorry."

"For what, this? This wasn't your fault."

"But I'm the one who wrote to you about Davis being here. I'm the informant. I sent you the letter and…"

"And now you're thinking that if you hadn't wrote it, none of this would've happened," he finished for her. "For the love of Pete, Ruth, stop blaming yourself for things you didn't do!"

"I shot Jim in the leg."

"All right, that one _was_ partially your fault. But only partially," he added quickly. "As you've pointed out yourself on more than one occasion, I'm as much to blame for what happened to Jim as you are."

"Well, since you admit it, and I admit it, I guess we're at an impasse. Truce?"

"Truce. Are you all right? You look a little shook up."

"I'm fine. I just had a bit of a…" She trailed off, rubbing her right elbow. "I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Yes."

Charlie sighed. She was lying and he knew it. He also knew that forcing it out of her would do either of them little good.

"What're your plans for the day?" He asked, deciding to change the subject.

"Aside from making sure you weren't going to kick the bucket on me? Not much. I was going to talk with Joe later and see if he needed me for anything. I'm not just going to sit around in Hyde Park with my sketchbook, if that's what you're asking. I'm going to help."

"Good. Here's something you can do: They put all my things in the drawer over there. Get that playing card and take it to Mr. Holmes."

Ruth slid the drawer of the nightstand open and found the card lying on top. She picked it up and slipped it into her pocket.

"I've got it. Anything else?"

"Do you still have Pa's LeMat?"

"Well," she began with an impish grin, "family heirlooms aside, I've never had much stock in guns, so it's pretty safe to say that I—"

"Ruth."

She sobered at Charlie's stern tone.

"Yes, I have it. I haven't had a reason to use it, but I've kept it all the same. Although, I have to admit, I was sore tempted to use it the day you showed up."

"Keep it with you."

She blinked, surprised by the briskness of the sudden order.

"What?"

"I mean it, Ruth. Keep it with you. Keep it with you all the time. Don't give these men an opportunity to catch you off guard."

"All right. I'll keep it in my coat pocket."

"Promise me, Ruth. Promise that for once in your life, you'll actually listen to me."

Gently, she reached over and took her brother's hand.

"I promise, Charlie."

He smiled.

"Good girl."

"I'm not a pet, Charles."

The smile broke into a grin at the sharp retort.

"Now, that's the Ruth I know."

"Be careful what you wish for," she warned. "The Ruth you know is liable to string you up by your toes from a flagpole in a fit of petty anger."

"I'll take my chances."

His expression was so perfectly deadpan that Ruth finally gave in and laughed. Her amusement, however, was short-lived and soon faded when she caught sight of the spot under the sheet where her brother's leg should have been.

"Does it feel strange?"

"A little," he admitted. "One of the nurses said they were gonna fix me up with a wooden leg."

"So, now you'll be like Uncle Ted."

"No!" Charlie's eyes widened with horror. "Absolutely not! If I ever start acting like Uncle Ted, I want you to shoot me."

"Well, I won't make any guarantees. You and Uncle Ted crazy as a pair of loons might make our family reunions more interesting. But if you start calling me Martha, too, then I _will _shoot you. That's a promise."

"Can you do one other thing for me?"

"Sure."

"Stop by my room and get my notebook. There's some information in there that might help. Show it to Mr. Holmes if you like."

"I'll do that. I'll see you tomorrow, Charlie." She hesitated before giving him a brief hug and then hurrying from the room.

"I have something Holmes wants Inspector Lestrade to see," Watson told her, pulling the door shut behind him. "We'll have to stop at Scotland Yard first."

"That's fine. I'm not really in a hurry. I'd just like to get back to Baker Street before Mr. Holmes decides to poison my cat."

* * *

Across town, Holmes was still slouched down in his armchair at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the day, thankfully without looking in the icebox, and the house was unusually quiet. Gladstone had succumbed to the latest anesthetic experiment and was snoring gently in front of the fireplace. Edgar, on the other hand, lurked on the mantelpiece like Beelzebub himself, staring unblinkingly at the detective with a baleful eye. Holmes would never consider himself a fanciful man, but in that moment he could practically feel the loathing emanated from the animal. If he ever needed proof of demon possession, he needn't look farther than Ruth Henley's cat. Some chloroform might be in order. Or perhaps a priest…

An urgent knocking at the front door gave Holmes the release he needed. He left the room and hurried downstairs, only to have Edgar follow him like a malevolent shadow, prowling along the baseboard. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Holmes opened the door.

A boy stood on the threshold with an envelope in hand.

"Message for you, Mr. 'Olmes."

He started to hand the letter to the detective, but froze when Edgar took up residence by the door and promptly began hissing. The boy's eyes widened at the sight of the menacing creature.

"Blimey! That one's vicious, 'e is!"

Holmes booted the cat away from the open doorway, ignoring the furious spitting, and took the envelope.

"Yes, I was aware of that, unfortunately. Here." He tossed the boy a coin and shut the door without another word.

The message appeared to be from the telegraph office near Scotland Yard. Holmes removed the note and let the envelope flutter to the ground, paying no heed when Edgar tried to eat it.

MURDER IN REGENTS PARK. STOP. COME AT ONCE. STOP. LESTRADE.

**

* * *

**

Mild cliffie. Not too bad, eh? I mean, we all knew there'd be another stiff eventually. I'll bet Lestrade's none too happy.


	11. Chapter 11

**Ugh. I didn't think I'd ever get this done. Between homework, finals, holidays, and baby-sitting, there hasn't been much time to do much more than sleep my free-time away, and I think it shows in this pathetic excuse for a chapter.**

**Disclaimer: The unfortunately dim Constable Walters is mine, but you folks are welcome to have him.**

* * *

Chapter 11

Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard was, to put it mildly, furious. He knew Sherlock Holmes was brilliant with tricky cases and capable of unraveling the most difficult problems, but at that moment he would have liked nothing better than to choke the consulting detective with his bare hands.

"I asked you to catch this man, not dawdle around and let him kill again!"

Holmes stared back at the irate inspector, completely unfazed.

"Lestrade, you really should consider calming down a little. As Dr. Watson could testify, prolonged excitement inevitably leads to an increased risk of heart failure. Furthermore, it might enable you to give more precise directions. This is not Regent's Park; this is Regent's Park Estate. There is a considerable difference. Fortunately, Clarkie was able to point me in the right direction. Where's the body?"

Lestrade turned beet red at Holmes's words, but grudgingly pointed to the front steps of a building. The unfortunate victim had landed face down by the door. A constable who looked, in Holmes's opinion, too young to be working on the force stood guard by the scene of the crime and straightened up nervously when the detective came to inspect the corpse.

"Name?"

"Toby Walters, sir."

"The body," Holmes clarified.

"Oh. Norton, I believe, sir. Albert Norton."

"Any witnesses?"

"No, sir. None that we know of. The housekeeper found him."

"Married?"

"No, sir. Not yet."

"_Not yet?" How could he possibly— Oh, good grief!_ Was there no end to the stupidity of some people?

"The body," he clarified again.

"Oh. Yes, sir. I believe he is."

Holmes ignored the constable and proceeded to examine ill-fated Albert Norton. Once again, the formula had changed. This man was in his early thirties and had died of apparent strangulation by a noose. None of his personal effects appeared to have been stolen, but he did have a spade painted on the forehead. Holmes turned the coat pockets out and was rewarded with a playing card. As he placed it in his own pocket, he caught sight of Norton's right ring finger. Now that was interesting.

"Constable."

"Sir?"

"Are you aware that this man is missing a ring from his right hand?"

"No, sir."

"Make a note of it. Do the staff know if any valuables are missing?"

"Not that I'm aware of, sir."

_Is there anything you're aware of?_

"Find out. I'll interview the wife now."

Holmes brushed past Constable Walters without waiting for a response and entered the house. It was the typical home of a prosperous government official, and unbearable clean. For someone like Holmes, it was almost nauseating. He pushed the thought aside and strode purposefully into the parlor where the wife waited, only to have Constable Walters dart by him like an over-eager puppy.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes would like to ask you a few questions, ma'am, if that is all right."

The woman rose to greet them.

"Yes, of course. Thank you, constable." She dismissed him with a flick of her hand, suggesting that, like Holmes, she was less than impressed with the young officer's abilities. As Walters scurried back to his post, Mrs. Norton returned to her seat. Holmes took the chair opposite her.

"Mrs. Norton," he began, getting straight to the point, "am I correct to assume your husband was financially well-off?"

"Yes. My husband's salary was quite substantial."

"Did he have any enemies that you know of?"

"Well," she said slowly, choosing her words carefully, "when one is working in the upper branches of government, I'm sure there are always parties who bear grudges. Whether or not there were any such people as far as my husband is involved, I could not say."

"Did your husband ever show any signs indicating blackmail?"

"No. He would never stoop so low as to blackmailing another person, and if someone had been blackmailing him, he certainly never said anything."

"What of the possibility of a personal grudge?"

"No," she said resolutely, "absolutely not. Albert wasn't the type to engage in petty feuds."

Holmes considered her words. He stood.

"Mrs. Norton, I have one other question."

"Go on," she whispered, keeping her eyes on her lap.

"Was your husband a Mason?"

The lady looked up at him, thoroughly startled.

"Yes. Yes, he was. He never spoke much of it, but I knew."

"I see. Thank you, Mrs. Norton."

As Holmes entered the foyer, he became aware of Constable Walters arguing with Joe Morris on the front step.

"I'm sorry, sir, but you cannot go inside."

"Lookee here, son, I'm workin' this case, too."

"I understand, sir, but Mr. Holmes is busy. You cannot bother him."

"Listen, whippersnapper, I got a job to do, an' you're keepin' me from doin' it. Now, move over an' let me in. If Mr. Holmes is questionin' somebody, I gotta hear 'em, too."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I cannot—"

"I'm finished," Holmes strode forward, cutting him off. "Excuse me, constable."

Constable Walters quickly moved aside to allow the detective out.

"Yes, sir. Oh, and sir, the rest of the staff have been questioned. They insist nothing is missing and they know nothing about the ring, sir."

"Thank you, constable. Good day."

Walters nodded eagerly as Holmes left, calling out, "You're welcome, sir. Good day, sir."

Morris followed, chuckling to himself.

"A friend of yours?" he asked the moment they were out of earshot. Holmes gave a derisive snort.

"Not hardly. Just another over-zealous admirer of my work who was hired by Lestrade for some inexplicable reason. If I didn't know better, I'd say he did it on purpose."

"I once had to work with a fella in the St. Louis police," Morris reminisced. "For some reason, the chief had it out for us Pinkertons and he told the ol' boy to make it as hard on me as possible. I reckon folks in uniform just assume private citizens are less smart. Soon's I realized what the kid was doin', I led him on a merry little dance and sent him off in the other direction while I got the evidence I needed. Boy nearly got fired over it, but I reckon if an officer don't know the difference between Clinton Street and Clintock Street, he don't need to be on the force."

Holmes studied the old man from the corner of his eye as he spoke. Like his two compatriots, he seemed to be a contradiction. At first glance, he appeared to be a typical, uneducated old cowpoke. But an uneducated old cowpoke would never have been hired by Allan Pinkerton. It was time to shed some light on the subject.

"Mr. Morris, forgive my forwardness, but there is one point I'm still not quite clear on. How does a Wyoming ranch hand end up working as a part-time inquiry agent for the United States government?"

Morris gave a short bark of laughter.

"Ain't the usual course of events, is it? I was a Texas Ranger before I was a ranch hand, y'see. I joined up with them in 1845 and was with them for thirty years except for the three years I left during the War Between the States. Afterwards, I came back and worked with John Armstrong, mostly, helpin' him catch outlaws."

Holmes's quick brain did the math.

"Then you must have worked on the John Hardin case."

"Yep. That's how I got to workin' for Ruth's uncle. Hardin was a wily rascal and Amos was already a pretty well-respected Pinkerton, so they brought him in to help with the investigations. We'd met before at Pea Ridge and again at Iuka by some quirk of Fate and after hearin' things 'bout him after the War, I was happy to work with him. Saved my life twice during the whole ordeal. Amos Henley's nothin' if he ain't loyal. S'where Ruth gets it from, prob'ly. Girl's just like him, I swear, but I'm ramblin'. After the Hardin job, I'd planned to retire and Amos offered to take me on as a hand. I took him up on it and went to Wyoming and spent the next ten years or so either punchin' cattle or punchin' thugs."

Holmes listened in his typical fashion: Eyes straight ahead, never looking at the speaker, and apparently not paying attention, yet capturing and filing away ever detail for further reference and contemplation. This revelation of Morris's filled in several pieces to the puzzle that was Ruth Henley. It wasn't Holmes's nature to openly question a man on subjects he could research later, but Morris was here in front of him. The detective might as well use the resources given to him. There was one question in particular he was burning to have answered.

"What sort of education has Miss Henley had?"

"'Bout as much as a person can get livin' out on a ranch in a pretty much lawless territory," Morris told him. "Ruth's a smart girl, real smart. Smarter'n most girls are at her age. Every time we're working in a town or a city, she always finds time to look through their libraries. Judges the quality of a place by how good their library is. Reads all kinds of stuff 'n knows how to look things up for us. Book-smart, I guess is what you'd call her. Book-smart and a solid rock of common sense in most things, but she never stayed in school long. She'd go for a few weeks, but then she'd get tired with it 'n start sneakin' off 'n playin' hooky. Her folks finally realized the best thing to do was school her at home."

"She didn't complete her primary education?"

"Nope. It weren't too long after Lewis and Miss Opal passed that her Aunt Marjorie tried to step in and sent her off to some boarding school back East. It didn't work out and she came home. I don't think she's ever quite got over it."

"The aunt or Miss Henley?"

Morris considered, and then laughed.

"Both," he declared.

Somehow, Holmes wasn't surprised. Ruth Henley sounded about as compatible with boarding school as water did with oil. What _did _surprise him was the fact that Ruth seemed to value learning, despite her distrust of the more formal settings, enough to educate herself, albeit in a non-traditional sense. That certainly explained her resourcefulness.

As Holmes considered the events of the past few days and made connections in his head, he found that he did not like they way they were leading. He suddenly heard Watson voicing his misgivings about involving a girl in such a sordid affair, and he could only hope that her ingenuity would be enough for her in the turmoil to come.

* * *

Ruth had waited patiently in the police station while Watson met with Inspector Gregson as per Holmes's instruction. Afterwards, the two had hailed a cab to go to Charlie's boarding house, which they now stood outside of. Even in the sunlight, the place looked as dismal as ever. Ruth strode boldly up to the door, knocked, and stepped back to wait. She started to knock again, but jumped back when the door creaked open and someone peered out at them through the crack.

"Mrs. Dodd?" she asked apprehensively.

The crack widened. The landlady looked Ruth and Watson over with a gimlet eye.

"Yes. Who are you?"

"I'm Ruth, Charles Henley's sister. Charlie's in the hospital and he asked me to come get some of his things for him."

Mrs. Dodd's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Mr. Henley never said anything about having a sister. He only mentioned a brother."

"That'd be Travis. You've met him, actually. He was here yesterday with my brother and Dr. Watson." Seeing that the landlady was scrutinizing her face, Ruth gave her most winning smile and added, "Travis and I are twins."

"Hmph. Very well, I suppose you may go up." She opened the door all the way to allow them in, taking a key from her apron pocket and handing it to Ruth. "First door on the left. You have ten minutes. A moment longer and I'll escort you out."

"I assure you, ma'am, ten minutes is more than sufficient."

Mrs. Dodd sniffed haughtily and retreated to her parlor. The moment the landlady's back was turned, Ruth's smile melted into a grimace.

"Jiminy Christmas, I didn't think that old buzzard was _ever_ gonna leave."

"You're very good at convincing others you're something you're not," Watson observed as they started up the stairs.

"Comes with the territory. When you spend all your time around adults, you learn the ground rules quickly. And if you don't learn them, you learn how to act like you've learned them."

"Ground rules?"

"Say 'yes, ma'am' and 'no, sir' and be respectful to everyone, even if you think they don't deserve it," she explained. "Never tell a man you're better with a knife than they are, even if it's the truth. Don't speak out of turn, there's nothing like a Smith & Wesson for shutting someone up, and no matter what nonsense comes out of her mouth, Aunt Marge is always right. This must be it." She paused in front of a door and began fiddling with the key. The lock unlatched, but Ruth found herself fighting to get it open. She finally managed to shove the uncooperative door free. It swung open on creaky hinges, but Ruth remained motionless in the doorway.

The room had been completely ransacked.

Papers were flung everywhere and books were strewn about. A potted plant was tipped on its side; the pot itself was cracked, and dirt littered the floor. The cushions had been removed from the sofa and armchairs, stuffing lying around them. A small cupboard in the corner had been opened and rummaged through, its door hanging crazily by one hinge. A chair in the corner had been overturned.

Ruth entered the room, side-stepping a broken coffee table. Watson followed her.

"What happened here?"

"Well, I know Charlie and Joe are both bachelors, but neither of them are this sloppy, so I'd say it's a pretty safe bet that Davis or one of his cronies is behind it."

"What were they after?"

"Incriminating evidence. Charlie's notes. He wanted to see how much we know. I'll bet he didn't get far."

"I wouldn't be so confident," Watson said, looking around the room. "This place is ruined."

Ruth pushed her way through the mess, making a path to the desk at the far end of the room.

"It's still here," she said as she opened the top drawer. She pulled out a Bible with a grin. "It's the one place crooks never think to look." She opened the cover and flipped through it. "All still in one piece. I gotta hand it to Charlie; he's nothing if not devious."

"Your brother defaced a Bible to conceal his notes?"

"No!" Ruth looked at him affronted. "We Americans may be utter heathens in your eyes, but we're not blasphemous. The cover fell off and most of the pages were lost. Charlie simply replaced the insides and rebound it." She thumbed through the pages once more before placing it in her satchel and turning around. "We'd better go before that old witch decides to take after us with her broom."

Watson couldn't agree more.


	12. Chapter 12

**We're getting down to the wire here. Just a few chapters left! If I can ever find time to work on them, that is.**

**Disclaimer: As much as I would love to own Holmes and Watson and Co., I don't, and never will. I can dream, though. Ruth Henley, Joe Morris, and Edgar the Psycho-Kitty are all mine.**

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Chapter 12

When Watson and Ruth returned to Baker Street, the insides of Number 221B looked, quite frankly, like a battle ground. After the investigation at Regent's Park, Holmes had come back and had torn his room apart in his search for something. For what, neither of them could be sure. Ruth sidestepped a mound of papers and a vase the detective had kept as a memento from a previous case to lean nonchalantly against the mantle and watch the destruction. Holmes paid her no mind, but waved at Watson from heap of stuff behind his desk.

"Oh, afternoon, Watson. Have a seat."

"Holmes, what are you doing?"

"Looking for something very important. Sit down and I'll be with you in a moment."

Watson cast his gaze around the room, searching for a free seat. He nudged a pile of books off the sofa and sat down, narrowly dodging some criminal relic from a past case as it sailed through the air. Holmes shoved the drawer shut with disgust.

"Confound it, Watson, what happened to that map of the States?"

"Have you looked in the coal scuttle?"

"Yes, twice, and I can assure you, it's not there."

"Try the umbrella stand behind the door."

Holmes disappeared in a flurry of papers as he continued his search for the elusive cartograph. Ruth flinched when something that looked like a miniature spittoon bounced off the mantle near her shoulder and landed on the floor with a clank. More papers and unidentified objects flew about the room.

"Ha! There you are!"

The detective emerged from the clutter triumphantly clutching the rolled-up map in his fist. He crossed the room, oblivious to the mess he'd made and the fact that he'd left the umbrella stand upside down, and pinned the map to the wall with a pair of jack-knives. Watson eyed him dubiously.

"You do know Mrs. Hudson will have a fit when she sees that?"

"Let Nanny have her fits; it might do her some good. You," he said, finally pointing at Ruth. "I want you to mark the location of each of Davis's victims on here." He tossed her a box of thumbtacks before diving back into the masses of paper and clutter. "Now then," he muttered to no one in particular, "where's that map of London?"

"Try the—"

"It's not in the umbrella stand, Watson, I just looked."

"I was going to suggest looking in the wastebasket by your desk."

"Right."

He vanished into the abyss again and returned victorious. Clearing a spot on the coffee table, Holmes spread the map out, holding down one corner with a metronome and the other with Mrs. Hudson's teapot, and quickly began marking points, completely unaware that Watson had got up and now stood behind him, hovering over his shoulder.

"I'm not seeing much of a pattern, Holmes."

Holmes jumped and turned to glare at his friend.

"Really, Watson, must you do that? You're worse than Mrs. Hudson."

"Sorry. But I'm still not seeing a pattern."

"Neither am I," Holmes admitted, keeping his voice low so Ruth couldn't eavesdrop. "Three murders in St. John's Wood, one in Regent's Park Estate. One attempted murder in Whitechapel and one in Baker Street. Wealth could be a factor in the three men, but not in the case of the maid. Location is still up for consideration as the man in Regent's Park might be a fluke, but I doubt it. As for the two attempts, the victims are siblings, although I highly suspect that is not the reason they were targeted. More likely, they were attacked first because they have been tailing Davis longer than we."

"You think Davis will come for us next?"

"Absolutely, unless he discovers the Henleys survived his attempts. If that is the case, he will surely want to finish the job. You and I are small fry in comparison to the family that has come so close to ending his reign of terror."

"Are you listening to yourself? And you call me a floridly romantic nuisance."

Holmes glanced over at Ruth with a malicious smirk.

"As our colonial friend would say, I'm 'calling the pan black'?"

"That's 'pot calling the kettle black,' thank you very much," she said from her spot in front of the American map. "Do you want to look at this now that I'm done, or would you rather foul up my country's vernacular some more?"

Holmes left his own map to study Ruth's.

"You're certain this is accurate?"

"Quit second-guessing me," she snapped. "Believe it or not, I actually have an idea of what I'm doing. I'm not completely incompetent."

"I'm shocked."

"There were two murders in New York," Ruth said, pointedly ignoring him, "followed by two more in Washington, D.C., one in Virginia, two in Georgia, one in Ohio, one attempted murder in Ohio, and three planned in Illinois."

"And that was where you stopped him?"

"Yes. One of his two victims in Ohio was one of Davis's low-ranking cronies. He made his boss mad, but managed to survive his personal execution and told us Davis was going to Chicago. That was where we almost caught him."

"Almost?"

"Yes, almost," she said irately. "If we'd _actually_ caught him, we wouldn't be having this conversation, would we?"

"No, I daresay we wouldn't. What happened?"

Ruth suddenly looked uncomfortable.

"Do you have to know?"

"Yes, I do. I need a better understanding of how this man escaped. It could prove useful."

"What if I refuse?"

"Then I'll go to your brother and get the story from him."

"Oh, all right then. I accidently shot one of our own men in the leg, the warehouse we were in caught fire and burned to the ground, and in the confusion two of Chicago's Finest let Davis go because he managed to convince them he was the fire chief."

"That's all there is to it?"

"That's all I'm giving you. The story's embarrassing enough without going into detail."

And there was another piece of the puzzle filled in. It was Ruth's fault Davis had gotten away in the first place. She hadn't run away from Wyoming. All evidence suggested she'd been running after Davis and the road had led her to London. That did not, however, explain her eagerness to blame her brother. If she'd been the one to shoot one of the other Pinkertons, he failed to see how Charlie could be held responsible for her own ineptitude. But the Henleys' familial problems didn't matter at the moment. Stopping Henry Davis was more important, and there were more questions to be answered.

"Would there be any way to have the attempted murder victim questioned?"

"Nope. He died the day after he told us where Davis was going. Freak accident, I believe. The prison coach he was in wrecked and sank in the Scioto River while being transported to the court house. That was the official statement, anyway."

"You don't believe it?"

"Not a bit. A coach carrying four men to their court hearings overturns and lands in a river, and he's the only one of the bunch who drowns? There was something fishy about the whole thing, and I'm not talking about the Scioto."

Holmes had to admit, the situation sounded suspicious. The odds of that happening were very slim. He turned to Watson, suddenly reminded of something.

"Did you meet with Inspector Gregson?"

"Yes, I did. He had this for you."

Watson handed him an envelope. Holmes tore it open and read the contents.

"Ha! Excellent!" The detective was practically gleaming with triumph. "This is just the tie we've been in need of."

Ruth ignored Holmes's exuberance, and inspected the mess, suddenly spotting the tin of Lazarus Mickleston's Memphis Lemon Macaroons sitting on the table. She eyed them suspiciously.

"Why do you have those? They're not edible, I can promise you that, even when they're fresh."

"Believe it or not, this tin holds one of the keys to our success."

"I don't believe it," she stated flatly. "How?"

He fingered the paper with a smile.

"What do you know about the Freemasons?"

"Not much. What are they, one of those 'Hallelujah-pass-the-copperhead' religious groups?"

"A what?"

"Never mind."

"The Freemasons are a clandestine brotherhood with a membership spanning the globe. Their inner workings are most secretive, and some people believe them to be part of a greater conspiracy." He pried the lid off the tin, and dumped its contents on the table. Mixed in with the inedible macaroons were several rings. Holmes spread them out in a line. Watson picked one up to view the insignia.

"A Mason's ring?" he asked.

"Not _a _Mason's ring," Holmes said, holding up each ring in turn to show the square and compasses. "Ten Mason's rings. One for each man Davis has killed. I had Inspector Gregson look into the matter for me. With the exception of the Williams's maid, all three murdered men were Masons."

"That should make it eleven rings, not ten," Ruth pointed out.

"True, but we moved the tin before Davis murdered Albert Norton in Regent's Park Estate. He would not have been able to hide his latest acquisition if the tin was no longer in his possession."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"I certainly try. If I don't, I make one up."

"I figured. Then explain to me why you think each of these rings belonged to someone Davis killed, please."

"It is merely a theory. One that will either be disproved or confirmed when your colleague Mr. Morris arrives."

"Joe's coming?"

"Yes."

"I'll make some coffee, then. He's always more cooperative after he's had a couple cups."

"And if I were you," Watson warned, "I'd do something with that snake before Mrs. Hudson comes back."

Ruth gave a nod and started to leave.

"I have one other point of concern," Holmes said, "before Mr. Morris gets here and you decide to clam up again."

She cast a jaundiced eye on the detective.

"And what's that?"

"I want you to explain the missing bullion you mentioned yesterday."

"It's probably nothing."

Holmes gave the closest thing Watson had ever heard to an exasperated snort.

"Miss Henley, I need the facts and I need all of them, no matter how minuscule or insignificant you seem to think they are. I shall put this in the simplest way I know: What happened to the bullion?"

"Davis supposedly organized and implemented its theft from a train in Virginia."

"And why are your Pinkerton friends so set against my knowing?"

"They're not my friends, and it's not just you, if that makes you feel any better. They don't want anyone knowing. Davis and his men made our boys look like idiots."

"How much was stolen?"

"I don't know. A lot."

"I was hoping for specifics."

"I have none to give you. They've kept me in the dark on that matter. 'Confidential information' is what they called it. Which probably translates to 'You're a woman. You don't need to know.'"

"You don't sound convinced."

"I'm not. There's something funny about it all. It just doesn't make sense somehow. Davis is the killing business, not the stealing business."

"Then you don't think he did it?" Watson asked.

"Oh, I think he did it; I'm not denying that. I just don't think he acted alone. Stealing the gold wasn't his idea. I think he might've been acting on someone else's orders. No, I don't know who," she said, cutting Holmes off before he could ask. "It's just a theory."

"You said he's not in the stealing business. How do you account for the missing items from each of the victims' homes?"

"He's a hunter," she said simply. "Those are his trophies. He can't take them, so he takes something they value. That's all he's interested in. If he takes one of his thugs with him on the job, they might be tempted to take some of the other items, but he's not interested in that."

"You seem to know a lot about this man," Holmes observed.

Ruth shot him an icy look.

"I've been one of the people chasing this man for almost a year and a half now. That's plenty of time to get to know your target."

She turned on her heel and left the room. Watson returned to his seat on the sofa.

"Well," he said, "what do you think of that?"

"A fascinating turn of events," Holmes muttered. He groped along the cluttered mantelpiece, searching for his pipe. He finally located it, but waited until after he'd lit it before continuing, "This hints at the possibility of something bigger. Perhaps Davis acted alone, perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he has some unknown benefactor who requested he do the job as a means of repayment, perhaps not. Perhaps he only wanted to see if he could do it. With a record like his, I could believe such a theory. Perhaps he was acting on the behest of someone else; someone who doesn't like to have a hand in their own affairs, someone who prefers to let others do the dirty work. If that is the case, then this could be a precursor of things yet to come. Yes, Watson, this could be merely the tip of the iceberg."

"Fascinating," Watson said flatly, watching Holmes stroll to the window. He caught sight of Edgar skulking under the table like a vile shadow, his tail stretched languidly out in the detective's path. "Holmes?"

"Not now, Wats—"

"Reeer!"

Edgar let out a volatile screech when Holmes's foot came down on the exposed tail. The enraged cat spun around in a flurry of hissing and spitting, and proceeded to shred Holmes's trouser leg. The detective flung his pipe at the cat as he darted out the door, but missed. Disgusted, he assessed the damage done to his leg.

"Watson," he said calmly, "I want you to throw that wretched animal in the Thames first chance you get."

"I'll make a note of that the next time I feel like losing a hand," the doctor remarked.

"This is the third pair of trousers that demon has destroyed in the past two weeks," Holmes groused, crossing the room to retrieve the pipe and stomp out a few embers smoldering on the rug. He returned to the window to gaze broodingly at the crowded street. "I should start charging his owner for their repair; I could make a tidy profit on it."

"She'd probably repair them for you if you'd just ask her."

Holmes gave a grimace.

"No, thank you, Doctor. I've seen that girl's handiwork with a needle. Unless I require a scarecrow, I shan't be consulting her."

"Merely a suggestion," Watson replied. "So, you think Davis has an employer?"

"A benefactor, most likely. There is something about this situation that I don't like. Some of it seems far too straight-forward, while the rest of it seems incredibly complicated. We must tread carefully, Watson. By capturing Davis, we risk inflaming his mysterious patron. Hmm. I do believe I see our Pinkerton acquaintance coming down the street. As Mrs. Hudson is not in at the moment, and Miss Henley is busy disposing of incriminating evidence, perchance you might show him in?"

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**I loathe ending chapters with dialog, but I had to do it. If I didn't, this chapter would never be posted, and it would probably be insanely long. I had to break it somewhere, and this was the best spot.**

**One other note: Ruth's "pass the copperhead" comment is a phrase taken from my grandma who used it to describe some former neighbors of hers who had some pretty interesting ideas about Christianity works. Since Ruth has been based predominately on my grandma, I try to use some phrases that were favorites of hers whenever I can.**


	13. Chapter 13

**My final World Literature assignment of the year: Read _A Scandal in Bohemia_ by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and watch the 2009 _Sherlock Holmes_ film if you can find it. Best. Teacher. Ever.**

**I didn't think I'd ever get this chapter finished. I don't know what the problem was, but I finally had to knuckle down and just force myself to write the darn thing. By the way, if you haven't read bkwrm19's stuff, I highly recommend you mosey on over to said author's profile and leave a review or two. A bit of shameless plugging, I know, but I see nothing wrong with it. I'm merely returning the favor. ;)**

**Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own; you don't sue.**

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Chapter 13

The faint aroma of coffee brewing could be detected as Watson came down the stairs, along with another smell he did not recognize. Ruth was frying something, from the sound of it. Why, he had no idea, and he had no time to contemplate it as he opened the door to admit Morris. The Pinkerton seemed older and much more tired than when Watson had seen him last, most likely from the strain he'd been under. He entered without a word and followed the doctor upstairs to the sitting room.

"Where's Ruth?"

"Down in the kitchen brewing up a pot of coffee," Watson replied. "She should be almost finished."

"_Is _finished, thank you very much," crowed a voice from the landing. "Get the door."

Watson obliged. Ruth entered, bearing a tray with a coffee pot and cups. On a plate next to the pot were several strips of some kind of fried meat. Watson eyed it with polite curiosity.

"What is that?"

"You said I should do something with the snake," she replied, setting the tray on the table with a clatter and pouring herself a cup. Watson stared at her incredulously.

"You mean you cooked it?"

"Yep," she said, selecting one of the smaller, crispier strips. "Tastes just like chicken. Try one."

She bit into the end of the strip with a satisfying crunch and walked away, smirking. Morris poured a cup for himself, and then offered another to the doctor. Watson accepted it with some uncertainty, and tentatively sipped it. It took him every ounce of politeness he could muster to not pull a wry face at the potency of the drink. He was fairly sure no amount of cream or sugar could weaken it. Morris took a gulp, mulled over the taste, and turned to Ruth, who had perched herself on the arm of the sofa.

"A little weak, don't you think?"

She gave a shrug.

"I had to make do with what I had. Forgive me for not having a horseshoe handy to test it."

"Pardon?" Watson interjected, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

"Back home we toss a horseshoe in the pot," Ruth stated, giving another shrug. "Stands up straight, coffee's ready."

Well, that explained everything. Watson returned the cup to the tray. Holmes, still puffing away at his pipe, turned away from the window.

"If we can dispense with the formalities, I should like to get underway." He ignored the tray of coffee and fried rattlesnake and settled himself in an armchair. "Mr. Morris, what can you tell me about Davis's previous victims? The ones from America?"

"Well, lemme see here," Morris said, sitting down on the sofa. "There was two fellers kilt in New York, n'then two more down in—"

"Yes, I know their locations," Holmes interrupted, brushing him off. "I need to know what kind of connections they had, if any."

"There didn't seem to be much of one," the old man admitted after pondering the question for a few minutes. "They didn't have any mutual friends or relatives, except for the two brothers in Georgia, and they was both farmers. The rest of 'em weren't related in any way as far as we could find. A couple doctors, a few lawyers n' businessman types, maybe a banker and a farmer or two. No real connections."

"That is because somebody in your office has not done his job properly," Holmes said, tapping the macaroon tin he'd returned the rings to earlier. "Or perhaps he did, and you've simply overlooked it."

"You've found a connection?" Morris questioned with slight skepticism.

"I certainly believe I have. Each victim was missing one similar object from their person: a ring. A very particular ring bearing the insignia of the brotherhood known as the Freemasons. The other valuables stolen from their homes varied, but they all had that missing ring. Those missing rings have been located." He flipped the tin over and dumped the contents onto the table. "See for yourself," he invited. "Ten Masons rings, eight of which are of American make. The other two are English, corresponding with the first two murders which occurred here."

Morris picked up one the rings and examined it, nodding his head slowly to himself as if some obscure piece of evidence suddenly made sense.

"You're saying each of those men was murdered because they were Masons?"

"Exactly."

Ruth groaned and buried her face in her hands.

"There is no hope for American law enforcement," she lamented. "Why did nobody notice this?"

"Because most law enforcement agencies are nothing short of completely incompetent," Holmes replied.

"Well, that ain't entirely true."

Ruth turned her head sharply to look at Morris.

"_What?"_

"We knew about them all being Masons," he admitted. "We figured it to be a coincidence."

"Eight men of the same secret society were murdered, and your agency thought it was a _coincidence?"_ Holmes inquired, pointing out the absurdity of the statement.

"We never could find a link. They were in different states, had different occupations, weren't related in anyway, had different ranks; we had no way of knowing the next target."

"That matters very little at the present moment," Holmes said. "We have more pressing matters to deal with."

Ruth's attention, however, was focused elsewhere. She was glowering at Morris with incredible vehemence.

"You _knew_ about this?" she asked, her voice frighteningly soft. "You _knew, _and didn't tell me?"

"Yes."

The girl leaped up from her perch on the sofa, and spun on her heel to face the man she'd known since infancy. Her face was livid.

"Of all the arrogant, pompous, egotistical, two-faced, chauvinist b—"

"You keep a civil tongue in your head, missy," the Pinkerton warned. "Your Aunt Marjorie might have pretty ridiculous ideas, but curbing your mouth is certainly not one of them."

Ruth took the hint, and settled quietly back down on the arm of the sofa.

"As I was saying," Holmes continued as if the outburst had never happened, "we have a more urgent issue to deal with at the moment. We must decide our next course of action against Davis."

Watson eyed his friend.

"In other words, you've already got everything planned out, and you expect us to blindly follow your instructions to the letter."

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"What do you have in mind, Holmes?"

"A contact of mine has informed me that Davis and his associates will be meeting underneath the Freemasons' Hall in Great Queen Street. I propose we meet there on Monday."

"On Monday?" Ruth yelped. "But that's three days away! Why can't we just get him now?"

"Because we have only circumstantial evidence," Holmes calmly explained. "We have to catch him in the act."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"We infiltrate his assassination meeting on Monday night."

"What makes you so sure it'll be an assassination meeting?"

"Simple. The Masons will also be meeting that night. It will be the perfect time for Davis to act."

"Holmes, I'm not sure this is a good idea."

"Nonsense, Watson. We will infiltrate the meeting on Monday night without detection by Davis or his compatriots, thereby overhearing his plans and being able to serve as witnesses to the crime. Before we can give him time to act, however, one of us will signal to Lestrade and his men, who will be arrive to arrest him."

"You make this sound so simple."

"It _is _simple, Miss Henley, if you think about it long enough."

"Not really. Sounds to me likes there's plenty of stuff that could go wrong. What if we get caught?"

"We?"

"Yes, we. If you think you're leaving me behind, you've got another think coming."

"I will leave that for you and colleague to discuss; it's none of my affair."

Ruth glanced at Morris, who gave a nod of approval. She turned back to Holmes.

"Again, what if we get caught?"

"We won't."

"Don't underestimate these men, Mr. Holmes. Davis is clever, and whoever he's working with is even more so. What if we get caught?"

"One of us shall have a police whistle. In the unlikely event that we are captured, we can simply signal Lestrade early with it."

"Does Lestrade know of this plan, Holmes?"

"Certainly not. I intend to inform him on Monday morning. It gives him less time to meddle with my plans. He has a tendency to do that."

"I wonder why," Ruth muttered to no one in particular.

"We will meet here in Baker Street at six o'clock," Holmes said, ignoring her. "That will give us time to go over the finer details one last time beforehand."

Sensing the discussion was over, Morris stood.

"Well, I'd better be going. See ya'll on Monday if not before."

As he left, Edgar slipped between his legs like a solid shadow into the room. The cat slunk across the room over to the sofa, leaped up onto the table, and proceeded to help himself to Watson's forgotten coffee. Ruth nudged him away with her foot.

"That's the last thing you need."

Edgar gave a low growl at the offending foot, and turned his attention to the now-cold rattlesnake strips. Holmes watched the animal with obvious distaste.

"You intend to accompany us on Monday night?"

"Absolutely. This is as much my case as it is Charlie and Joe's, and Charlie won't be able to come. I'll take his place."

"Are you sure that is a good idea?"

"Why wouldn't it be?" Ruth asked, as Edgar had returned to the coffee.

"Well, you do have several emotional ties to this case," Holmes replied. "It's possible your judgment could be clouded."

"My judgment is perfectly fine," Ruth answered coldly.

A tense silence followed, broken when Holmes reached down to grab his violin. The sudden movement startled Edgar, who jumped. The wired cat flung himself at Holmes in a flurry of black hair and hissing, and proceeded to give the detective another clawing, this time on the lap. Holmes jumped up with a strangled yelp, sending the cat tumbling to the floor. Edgar rocketed across the room like a feline juggernaut, still hissing and screeching, and scurried out into the hall, his nails skittering against the wood. A squeal from Gladstone told everyone he was the cat's next target.

Following that minor drama, Ruth picked up the remnants of the coffee tray and left without a word. Holmes sat back down, gingerly inspecting his latest acquisition of feline-related injuries.

"That animal's nine lives are numbered," he growled. "Remind me to ask the prison chaplain to come have a look at it."

"I thought you didn't believe in such things," Watson remarked.

"It's almost convinced me. Besides, I heard Nanny remarking to Mrs. Turner yesterday that she thought the animal was possessed. It would be mostly to set her mind at ease."

Watson didn't answer. Instead, he went to his desk and began writing up his notes, leaving Holmes to puff away on his pipe in peace.

The detective would be nothing short of grateful when this case was over. The sooner Davis and his cronies were captured, the better. Once Davis was behind bars, the Pinkertons could go back across the Atlantic where they belonged. Ruth would, unquestionably, go with them. Hopefully, she would have the presence of mind to take that demonic cat with her. That day certainly couldn't come soon enough.

* * *

**One final author's note here. While I myself have never eaten rattlesnake, I have it on good authority that it tastes almost exactly like chicken, but don't take my word for it. I claim no responsibility for any self-induced food poisonings.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Life, please take a vacation and butt out of my personal affairs. It's affecting my writing, as demonstrated by this insanely long delay in updates and the quality of the material.**

**Disclaimer: Do I actually own anything? I've been away so long I feel as if I don't. I think Ruth might be mine. And Edgar.**

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Chapter 14

Ruth had several virtues, but patience while waiting for something important to happen would never be one of them. That's not to say she didn't still try. She fared well enough on Saturday by visiting Charlie, and church had been her major distraction on Sunday, but by Monday afternoon, she was about as close to stir-crazy as a person could get. Lacking anything better to do, she'd gone over her room with a fine-tooth comb, cleaning and organizing everything in sight. When she'd finished that, she'd taken to pacing, fidgeting, and going from window to window in search of nothing in particular. She couldn't sit still long enough to sketch, and she'd decided against sewing on a dress that needed repair for fear she might inadvertently stab herself with a needle in her agitation. Finally, she'd plopped down in a chair by the fireplace, replaced the strings on her guitar, and then proceeded to tune the instrument.

Holmes tried to ignore it. He quickly found himself fighting a losing battle.

Although Ruth was, admittedly, a decent musician, tuning was a tedious process which lacked melodic appeal, regardless of the player's prowess. When she'd finished the exercises, she took to strumming various songs and melodies that sounded more appropriate for a campfire by a wagon train instead of a London flat. After a particularly twangy rendition of "The Yellow Rose of Texas," Holmes found himself checking the clock on the mantle by the minute.

"Mr. Morris should be here within the hour," he observed.

Ruth looked up sharply, as if suddenly aware of his presence.

"I only thought it best to give you some kind of warning," he continued. "You would be of little use to us if you were unprepared when he arrived."

"I'm sure you'd find that terribly amusing," Ruth remarked, placing her guitar aside.

"Well, watching you dash about in a mad flurry to get yourself prepared for our little evening excursion could prove entertaining."

Ruth gave a snort. She grabbed her guitar again, and left the room in a swish of skirts. Watson looked up from his novel.

"Does Lestrade know she's coming?"

"Lestrade knows we are being assisted by two American Pinkertons to whom I was told to give my complete cooperation. I might have neglected to mention that one of them is a cross-dressing young woman who, apparently, couldn't shoot a fish out of the proverbial barrel."

"What does that mean?"

"She herself has admitted to shooting one of her own colleagues in the leg, which inadvertently led to his untimely demise," Holmes pointed out. "A few other inquiries of my own have revealed that she has come close to shooting others on more than one occasion, and managed to miss a grizzly bear from a distance of twelve feet.

"Is that bad?"

"Grizzly bears are quite large. It would be like you missing an elephant at the other end of this room."

Watson eyeballed the distance from his chair and winced. "That is terrible," he conceded. "Why are you letting her come along?"

"I should like to see you stop her, Watson."

"I could probably reason with her," the doctor mused, half to himself.

"Do it then," Holmes dared. "Go up there, and tell her she can't go."

Watson's eyes went to the ceiling, and then to Edgar, who was lurking malevolently in the shadows by the door. "No," he decided, "I think not."

"In that case, doctor, you should concern yourself less with the affairs of mad American women, and more with remembering your revolver."

"I never forget my revolver," Watson told him, miffed. "You, on the other hand, would do well to shut off that Bunsen burner you've left going all afternoon before it burns something and Mrs. Hudson evicts us."

"She wouldn't dare." Holmes sounded quite sure of himself. "Nanny enjoys having someone to boss around."

After it became evident that the detective was not going to move, Watson got up and shut off the burner himself. He was just returning to his chair when Ruth appeared in the doorway. She was back in her Pinkerton garb, her Stetson tucked under her left arm. In her right hand, she carried the LeMat. Holmes watched as she gently wiped it down with a handkerchief and stuck both in her pocket.

"Just how good is that revolver?" he asked.

"Good enough that the Rebs decided to use it. Pa kept his after his discharge in '62. I got it after he passed on."

"Is it loaded?"

"It's always loaded," she said. "Except when I'm cleaning it."

"Would you care to give us a demonstration?"

"What, inside?" She stared at Holmes incredulously. "Are you off your rocker?"

"Certainly not." He pointed to a target he'd left pinned up on the wall from a previous case. "If you'd be so kind."

Ruth sighed with resignation, raised the LeMat idly, and fired. After the report had nearly deafened them and room was filled with the acrid scent of gunpowder, Holmes stood to inspect the shot. It was a good six inches to the left of the target.

"Yes," he said dryly. "Very good, I'm sure."

Ruth closed her left eye, took aim this time, and fired again. The shot narrowly missed Holmes, but it didn't miss the target.

"I've been practicing," was all she said.

The door to the sitting room suddenly flew open. Joe Morris hurried inside.

"Did I hear shooting in here?" he demanded. "What's going on?"

"Just a little target practice," Ruth informed him, idly twirling the revolver. "Nothing for you to go getting yourself worked up over."

Morris stared at the target and the whole in the wall next to it. Watson suspected his own face must have looked like that the first time he caught Holmes engaging in indoor pistol practice.

"You're hopeless," he finally said.

"No more than most," she replied. She turned to face Holmes. "All right, you said you'd go over the whole plan tonight. Start talking."

"After we meet with Lestrade," the detective assured her. He consulted the mantle clock. "Who, at this moment, is probably fuming over the fact that we are not in Great Queen Street right now. I already have a cab waiting. Shall we?"

Watson and Morris started to follow him out the door. Ruth lingered behind, her father's revolver still in her hand.

"Maybe I shouldn't take the gun," she said abruptly. She shifted uncomfortably when all three men turned to look at her. "It's just that…" She hesitated, clearly at war with herself. "I don't… want to repeat what happened in Chicago."

Morris stumped over to the girl and grabbed her by the chin, forcing her to look him in the eye.

"Ruth Henley," he growled, "I'm gonna say this just one last time, you hear? Shootin' Jim in the leg wasn't your fault. You know just as well as I do that bullet could've gone anywhere. That was an unlucky shot, and your aim ain't got a thing to do with it. Jim Simpkins is dead, it wasn't your fault, and if you don't get that through your head tonight, I don't reckon you ever will. Now, buck up so we can get this over with."

Ruth returned the revolver to her pocket, tugging her jacket down to straighten it and squaring her shoulders.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

The ride to Great Queen Street was a tense one. Aside from the clatter of hooves and wheels against the cobblestones, there was no sound. No one spoke. The cab pulled to a stop in an alleyway across from the Freemasons' Hall where Lestrade was waiting for them, along with Constable Clarke and five others.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Mr. Holmes," the inspector sighed.

"Certainly, Lestrade," Holmes replied breezily. "Don't I always? You have the whistle, I presume?"

"Here, sir."

Clarke produced the whistle from his pocket, and handed it to Holmes, who placed it in Ruth's hand.

"Miss—ter Henley will be in possession of the whistle. At the appropriate time, which will be after I give him leave to do so, he will give three long blows to signal too you that you may come and collect Davis and his associates. Is that clear?"

Lestrade nodded grudgingly. It wasn't as if he had another option.

"Are you armed?" he asked.

"Of course we are. Now, Lestrade, if you will excuse us, we have a serial killer to catch."

Holmes strode past the inspector toward the street and halted on the corner, just out of the flickering light of the gas lamps. Watson came to stand beside him.

"Holmes," he said, "just how, exactly, do you intend for us to enter the Freemasons' Hall without being spotted?"

"You're standing on it, Watson."

Alarmed, Watson looked down at his feet. He was standing on a manhole cover. He fought back exasperation.

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Do you mind?"

The doctor stood back as Holmes waved him away. The grating sound the cover made as it was removed seemed to amplify with each echo it created in the empty street. Watson found himself checking to make sure no one had heard, even though he knew the area was deserted except for the police constables. Morris was keeping his face devoid of expression, but Ruth's showed great consternation.

"You _are _loony!" she exclaimed, keeping her voice at a whisper to avoid Lestrade's notice. "You're going to crawl through a storm drain to get across the street?"

"Have you a better idea?" Holmes inquired. "I should love to see the Pinkertons' methods in action for once." Her stony silence indicated her lack of inspiration and her baleful glower indicated her displeasure, or would have if the shadow cast by brim of her hat hadn't obscured her face. "I thought not," Holmes said, gesturing to the hole. "Shall we?"

"I really don't see why this is necessary," Ruth argued.

"You don't know my methods, otherwise you would understand instantly."

"Holmes," Watson put in, "_I _know your methods and I don't understand, either."

"That is inconsequential." Without further ado, Holmes jumped down into the darkness. There was an unpleasant squelching sound as he landed, and his voice echoed back up through the hole. "When you're ready, Doctor."

Resigning himself to the inevitable, Watson allowed Morris, who declined any assistance, to go first. Ruth also refused help, preferring to simply throw herself down the hole feet first. The sound of boots sliding on the slick stone and a muffled thud followed some choice words suggested the reward for her choice. Watson lowered himself carefully down into the blackness.

The air was warm and dank, with the distinctive odor one expected to find in a tunnel beneath the streets of a metropolitan area. That didn't make it any less unpleasant. The only light came from the gas lamps above, dimly illuminating a patch every so many feet where a storm drain was located. Watson, Morris, and Ruth found themselves along behind Holmes in single file, completely at his mercy. Occasionally, the detective would give some kind of order or warning like "Watch your step," but for the most part, these came too late. It was so dark it wouldn't have made a difference anyway.

The however many yards walk across the street seemed to take twice as long underground with no landmarks. Even Ruth, who was normally comfortable with dark and enclosed spaces, felt herself growing progressively uneasy. Her anxiety increased when Holmes abruptly turned to the left, and the group found themselves bent nearly double in a low-lying tunnel that was clearly not part of the drainage system. She fumbled around in the shadows until her hand came in contact with Watson's coat sleeve. She pulled herself up alongside him and whispered, "How does he know about these places? _Why _does he know?"

"I haven't a clue," Watson admitted. "I've realized it's better not to ask questions. Half the time he doesn't answer."

"And the other half?"

"He makes you wish you never had."

"I'm already beginning to."

"Stop!" Holmes ordered. They froze. "Here."

"That's a wall, Mr. Holmes," Ruth pointed out, clearly not impressed.

"Thank you for demonstrating your firm grasp of the obvious, Miss Henley. I, however, am more interested in the obscure. The obvious is the best place for keeping something hidden."

The darkness of the tunnel disguised Holmes's movements, but a dim shaft of light suddenly appeared on one side, growing steadily larger as the wall apparently moved away. It finally stopped, leaving a human-sized hole which Holmes stepped through. After determining that he had not been observed, he motion for Watson and the two Pinkertons to follow.

They crawled through the wall and into a dimly-lit room. It was the basement of the Freemason's Hall.

They had infiltrated Davis's clandestine meeting place.


	15. Author's Note

I suppose an explanation is long overdue here. How 'bout an apology? Yeah, that's a bit late, too. I doubt many people are interested in reading the pathetic excuses of a two-bit, starving college student, but for those of you who've been hanging on 'til the bitter end waiting for the next chapter, this is for you.

The long and short of it is, I guess, life just really got in the way. You know how it goes: classes, work, student loans, laptop meltdowns, and a general abundance of poor time management skills, it all gets in the way of the writing process. That, and I've taken a creative writing class (and had a couple years to mature) which revealed to me just how laughably clichéd my current ending is. I'm serious, it's got it all: The villain's motive speech in which he unveils the reasons behind his dastardly deeds, a back-from-the-dead reveal, a climactic shoot-out, an unnecessary "dramatic" minor character death, a sword fight, and I think there might've even been something on fire and/or exploding at one point.

You see the problem? If I were three or four years younger, I wouldn't care, but putting this up now would be more-than-mildly embarrassing for me. These last chapters need some serious overhauling and TLC before they should see the light of day. They're in desperate need of peer review (*hint hint*). Or maybe I just need to learn to laugh at myself.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I haven't forgotten about _Ace of Spades_. Far from it. I just don't know if, or when, the final chapters will be completed and posted. If there's anyone out there still following this who absolutely _cannot_ wait for the end, drop me a line via PM and I'll be more than happy to oblige you with my chapter outlines, unfinished bits and bobs, excerpts, and everything else to give you a general, spoiler-ific idea of how the story was meant to end.

Until next time, fellow readers, I wish you all the best,

CricketCat


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